


There Is Another Sky

by Ael



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Adventure, Alien Planet, Crash Landing, Delirium, Eating gross stuff in the name of survival, Five Year Mission, Gen, Geographical Isolation, Hallucinations, Hurt Jim, Jim gives things stupid names, Loneliness, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poison, Sleep Deprivation, Stranded, Survival, Tarsus IV references, blatant excuses for Jim to have a beard, hunting and foraging, non-sexual nudity, time dilation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-10-20 03:09:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 57,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10653672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ael/pseuds/Ael
Summary: Of all the people to get stranded on a hostile alien world, Jim Kirk is prepared to survive better than most.That doesn't mean it's going to be easy.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Yep, this isn't the next part of IDIC either.
> 
> This fic is lightly inspired by the Star Trek Voyager episode "Blink of an Eye," in which Voyager discovers a planet where time moves far more quickly than the rest of the galaxy. I also may have watched The Martian a few too many times not to write a "Robinson Crusoe IN SPAAAACE" type fic eventually.
> 
> Because my work life has gotten so unexpectedly busy lately, this story will likely not be updated daily as my previous fics have been. I will update as I am able. Thank you for your patience and understanding. :)

_Captain's Log, stardate 2261.296. The_ Enterprise _is currently in a tenuously stable orbit around a rather unusual planet in uncharted space. Though it appears to meet all criteria to be categorized as a Class-M world, this planet rotates completely on its axis just shy of every three minutes, prompting the science division to nickname it Atalanta, after the Greek folk heroine who could not be beaten in a footrace except by trickery._

_There is only so much we can learn from this distance, but it is inadvisable to land on a planet whose equator is moving at roughly three hundred thousand kilometers per hour, to say the least. Therefore, a shuttlecraft containing myself, biologist Fischer, and meteorologist Stephens will make a high-altitude flyby through the planet's atmosphere to collect more data on this unique world, and perhaps solve the mystery of how plant life has managed to evolve on such a swiftly-rotating planet._

_Ordinarily, I would send Lieutenant Sulu on this mission, but our orbit requires an experienced hand at the helm. As the second-best helmsman aboard, I must admit I am looking forward to the chance to stretch my wings for once._

 

It's been too damn long since Captain Kirk has gotten to pilot anything bigger than the command chair, and he can't help grinning to himself as the shuttlecraft _Cassini_ lifts off the launch pad. The controls shift smoothly under his hands, guiding the boxy little craft through the open bay doors and out into the vacuum of space.

 

 _I can just hear Bones freaking out from here._ Kirk reaches over and flicks on the comm system. "Kirk to _Enterprise_ , _Cassini_ is away. Datastream coming through okay?"

 

" _Affirmative, captain,_ " Spock's steady, even voice replies immediately. " _Sensor data from_ Cassini _is being received and recorded with no difficulty. What is your estimated time until atmospheric contact?_ "

 

In the copilot's seat, Lieutenant Stephens leans forward towards the comm. "Two minutes, thirty-six seconds, Mister Spock," she tells him, then looks over at Kirk. "I've calculated the optimal entry vector that should let us skim through the mesosphere safely. Sending coordinates to your console now, sir."

 

"Got 'em." Kirk adjusts his course accordingly, sending the shuttle on a graceful curving path towards Atalanta. The planet looks a bit weird, rotating on its axis quickly enough that the movement is easily visible to the naked eye, a slightly blurry mass of blue and tan and green beneath wispy white clouds that wrap around the planet like long ribbons, and the poles are oddly clear of any clouds at all, like the eye of a hurricane.

 

"Increasing artificial dampeners to maximum." Kirk normally enjoys a little tactile feedback when piloting, like cornering a motorcycle at high speed, leaning into the curve... but even he will admit that going into this kind of wind shear with anything less than a hundred percent mitigation is potential suicide. "Shields on full. Ready to get some good data, lieutenants?"

 

"More than ready, captain," Fischer answers, leaning over Stephens' shoulder to look out the front viewport at the planet, which looms ever larger by the moment.

 

There's an odd shimmy in the shuttle, a faint vibration that Kirk feels only through his contact with the seat, and the straps around his shoulders tighten a little automatically to hold him in place, as if the systems are expecting something rougher. He frowns a little, double checking the dampeners, which show no signs of increased atmospheric drag yet. Which they shouldn't anyway, not at this altitude. _What the hell?_ "You'd better strap in," he cautions the two scientists, neither of whom is belted in. "Looks like this might be bumpier than we-"

 

_Wham._

 

Without warning, the entire shuttle yaws violently to starboard, the nose of the craft whipping towards the planet. Kirk's restraints jerk against his shoulders, and there's a pair of loud thuds as something goes flying and hits the bulkhead behind him. The inertial dampeners scream in tandem with the hull, an awful shudder gripping _Cassini_ despite the tech that is _supposed_ to keep them from feeling any of it, and everything reels nauseatingly, gray painting itself across his eyes as the view spins between black and white-wrapped green, flashing by so quickly he can't tell which way is up.

 

The open comm line to the _Enterprise_ has become an odd, low drone in his ears, an almost constant but wordless noise, and the part of Kirk that isn't fucking terrified wonders if it's because he's close to passing out from the G-forces. But he doesn't have much time to think about it, because the black part of the sickening swirl out the main viewscreen is becoming smaller and smaller as the green part gets longer and longer, and the shoulder harness is the only thing keeping him from being thrown into the copilot's seat. He sucks in a breath against lungs that don't want to expand, and croaks out, "Mayday, mayday, _Cassini_ out of control. Emergency beam-out!"

 

There's no answer but a dull roar in his ears, and the droning from the comm. Neither is there any sound from the scientists in the shuttle with him, and he can't turn his head to look, desperately trying to drag his hands back up to the console, his body feeling like it weighs a thousand tons. Leaden fingers fumble across the controls, trying to straighten out the spin of the shuttle, and there's an odd _whoosh_ coming from somewhere behind him, a roar of wind _inside the fucking shuttle_ and a bloom of heat.

 

The fire suppression system kicks on, flooding the inside of the shuttle with a white mist, choking what little air he's managed to suck into tight lungs, and his vision narrows to a single point of green in front of him, no longer flickering to black. The narrow point of view shifts as he forces drooping eyes downwards, and after several moments of labored searching, he finds the altimeter.

 

_Huh... it's supposed to be more than that._

 

Alarms blare in the distance, the shuttle's sickening plunge slowly beginning to straighten out, and the gray recedes a little from the world, a heavily forested landscape stretching out endlessly before his eyes. Coming up fast.

 

Too fast.

 

" _Enterprise_?" he wheezes out, his own voice sounding far away in his ears.

 

There's no answer, and Kirk's heart sinks into his boots, as heavy as the forces smashing him into the pilot's chair, and all he can do is watch as the green looms larger and larger in the viewport, waiting for the tell-tale tingling of transportation.

 

It never comes.

 

_Oh shit._

 

The shuttlecraft slams into the ground, and everything goes black.


	2. Day One

He wakes to an aching head and the acrid stink of something burning.

 

Kirk groans and opens his eyes, and for a moment, he doesn't recognize where he is. Everything is tilted weirdly, his arms dangling above his head, and the viewport shows green above and lilac below. The restraint straps dig into his shoulders, and he fumbles for the release, regretting it the moment he falls out of the pilot's seat and onto his head.

 

But at least it makes sense why everything is skewed at an angle his brain didn't like. He staggers to his feet, standing on the ceiling of the inverted shuttlecraft, the floor above obscured by gray smoke. There's no sound of crackling flame, at least, but he can't take the chance that'll last. He doesn't know how long he's been out, how long since _Cassini_ came to rest on her roof, how long the craft has been smoldering after the fire suppression systems were knocked out by the crash.

 

Kirk takes a moment to reorient himself, getting his bearings in the upside-down shuttle, before he locates the emergency supply locker. There's no time to pick and choose what he might need, so he simply grabs everything he can carry, slinging the straps of pre-packed supply kits over his shoulder.

 

He has to step over the bodies of Fischer and Stephens on his way out.

 

He doesn't need to stop and check for signs of life from either one. It's painfully, horrifically obvious that it's far too late, their blood painting the back of the shuttle with gore from where the tremendous centripetal forces slammed them into the bulkhead.

 

 _God, two more letters to write to their families._ No matter how many he has composed in his short career as captain, it never gets any easier. And this time, it's his fault that they're dead.

 

It must be. Stephens calculated the vector perfectly. They should have had some turbulence, yes, but the shuttle should have been able to handle it easily. Not whipped around so fast that it felt like hitting a concrete wall and then gone into an insane tumbling tailspin. _Was my entry angle wrong? What the fuck happened?_

 

The entry hatch slides open with a groan of protest, and stops halfway, but it's enough. The increased airflow only makes the smoke thicker, and he can hear the sound of flames roaring to life in the tiny confines of the shuttle, greedily sucking in the fresh source of oxygen. Kirk pushes the emergency supply kits out through the half-open hatch before shimmying out himself, emerging into sunlight and fresh woody air.

 

 _Cassini_ has crashed in the middle of a grassy field, a small oasis in a sea of trees, and there's a long furrow blasted into the landscape that shows the path of the shuttle as she came down and dug a trench through the forest. Fifty-foot hardwood trees are snapped off like they were nothing more than twigs, reduced to stumps and splinters. The shuttle herself is battered and dented, crumpled like a child's toy in the fist of a giant. It's a wonder that he survived the crash at all, inertial dampeners or not.

 

Kirk puts some distance between himself and the burning shuttle, now sending up a thick plume of toxic black smoke, and he doesn't stop until he reaches the treeline, where he can finally sit down and assess himself for injuries.

 

An exploratory swipe of his hand across his head comes away with blood streaking his fingers, slightly tacky and dark, and he probes at a cut on his forehead. _Feels shallow... bleeding's stopping already. Must've been hit by something that wasn't tied down._

 

Other than that, he seems physically fine, for the most part. Plenty bruised up, of course, especially where his restraint harness dug into his shoulders and his waist, right above the hips. And his lungs only burn a little from smoke inhalation, saved from sucking in more than a few traces of it by the fact that his head was kept so far below the floor of the inverted shuttle while he was unconscious. But he has no broken bones, no burns, no major lacerations. It almost doesn't seem fair, that he should be alive and relatively unscathed while two of his crew lie dead in the wreck of _Cassini_ , now their funeral pyre.

 

His thoughts are interrupted by an explosion that rocks the clearing, an orange fireball rising up from the crashed shuttle as the fuel pods finally rupture, belching smoke into the lilac sky. And as he watches the black smoke billow upwards, he frowns. Something's not right here.

 

The sky.

 

No, not the color. But if the planet was rotating on its axis once every three minutes, he should be seeing the sun rapidly track across the wide open sky, plunging beneath one horizon only to emerge from the opposite side shortly after. He should be feeling the effects of standing on a planet that is spinning at nearly two hundred thousand miles per hour; hell, he shouldn't be _alive_ long enough to notice the rotation of the planet's surface.

 

Yet the sun stubbornly hangs steadily in the sky, half-masked by fluffy white clouds that are _not_ the wispy streaks he saw from orbit, wrapping fully around the world. And a faint pinpoint of light about thirty degrees above the horizon can only be the _Enterprise_ , hanging stationary in orbit above Atalanta.

 

Time hasn't slowed down or stopped. The shuttle is proof of that, even if Kirk himself was somehow unaffected. But if something somehow happened to the _planet_ to make it slow down, as incredibly unlikely as that would be, why hasn't the _Enterprise_ sent a rescue team yet? Or beamed him back up to the ship? It's been long enough for the cut on his head to stop bleeding on its own, so it's probably been at least ten minutes.

 

It makes no sense.

 

Kirk shakes his head, baffled, and digs through the emergency supply packs to find a communicator. It chirps encouragingly when he flips it open, and attempts to open a channel to the ship. "Kirk to _Enterprise_ , please come in."

 

Silence. Not even interference.

 

"Kirk to _Enterprise_. Anybody up there? Hello?" He pokes at the settings, but every indication shows that the frequency is open and the ship _should_ be receiving him. " _Enterprise_ , if you can hear me, I am not receiving you. Requesting one to beam up."

 

He waits.

 

And waits.

 

Still nothing.

 

"What the hell is wrong with this thing?" He can't see any reason why communications should be disrupted, why the _Enterprise_ hasn't made a move to come help. Unless maybe there's something in the atmosphere blocking transmissions... but that still wouldn't explain the lack of a second shuttle.

 

But as the sounds of animal life slowly begin to fill the forest, after presumably being scared quiet by the explosion, he's more aware than ever that he's alone on an alien planet, with no idea what kinds of dangerous wildlife might be interested in a lone human.

 

He needs to get moving.

 

" _Enterprise_ , this is Kirk. Stephens and Fischer are dead and the shuttle has been destroyed. I don't know if you can hear me, or how long it will take to send a rescue party, so I am proceeding away from the crash site to seek shelter. I'll try to make contact every two hours. Kirk out."

 

But before he leaves the field, Kirk searches through the edge of the forest for enough fallen branches to create an arrow on the ground, pointing into the woods to indicate which way he's gone.

 

Just in case.

 

* * *

 

Being lost in an alien forest is terrifying enough with a full landing party where everyone is armed with phasers. It's an entirely different ballgame when you're alone, and armed only with a survival knife.

 

The forest is full of strange noises, animal calls that sound like nothing he's ever heard before: a deep roaring cry from the treetops followed by beating wings, an eerie whistle in the underbrush that scurries away when he approaches to investigate, an innocent chirping sound that ends in the most disturbing wet crunching noise he's ever heard in his life. What's worse is he's hardly _seen_ any of the creatures responsible for the sounds, just winged arthropods the size of his fist buzzing around, and a few things flitting high overhead that might be birds. Or bats. Or flying monkeys. It's hard to tell.

 

The foliage doesn't really look normal either, the more he looks at it. The leaves of some of the trees are weirdly-shaped, curling in bizarre jagged fractal patterns, and some varieties look less like wood and more like gigantic mushrooms, smooth off-white columns sprouting up between the barked trunks, blossoming with clusters of spongy spheres at the tops. And the bushes look more like gigantic sea urchins than plants, covered with big pointy spikes up to three feet long.

 

It's a living, breathing planet. So full of life, nothing at _all_ like the rotting fields of Tarsus IV, its desiccated forests, polluted with the corpses of animals and colonists alike.

 

Which is honestly the best news he's had all day. Chances are pretty good that he'll find _something_ edible growing here, even if he can't find any animals to hunt.

 

_I survived that shithole with damn near nothing. I can survive off the land for a few weeks if I have to._

 

Not how he'd planned to spend his time, but beggars can't be choosers. And with only eight days' worth of rations in the emergency kits he took from the crashed shuttle, his choices are pretty damn limited. But he's James T. Kirk, and losing is for _other_ people. _They'll come for me, sooner or later. And I plan to still be alive and well when they do._

 

He's been hiking through the forest for about an hour and a half when his communicator suddenly chirps with an incoming signal, and his heart leaps in his chest with hope. "Kirk here. Tell me that's you, Uhura."

 

But though the channel is clearly open, there's nothing but an odd silence, and he frowns, that hope starting to sink again. " _Enterprise_? This is the captain. I am receiving your signal but I can't hear any audio."

 

Nothing.

 

"This is fucking weird," he mutters, casting a look up at that steadfast speck in the sky, the one that must be the _Enterprise_ , still the same distance from the sun as it was when he set out. Like it hasn't moved in its orbit so much as a meter in two hours. But that's not possible. The ship _has_ to move forward to orbit; that's how the laws of physics _work_. The _Enterprise_ can't just be frozen in the sky.

 

He damn near jumps out of his skin when the open frequency abruptly begins broadcasting... _noise_. Not a voice. Just a constant, droning tone that sounds annoyingly familiar. _That's the same sound the comm made during the crash._ And by god, it doesn't seem to want to _stop_.

 

Kirk grimaces and turns down the volume, wary that such an unusual noise might attract the wrong kind of attention, but of course he doesn't want to miss any message that might break through this... bizarre interference. But as he listens, the constant drone is all he can hear. Eighteen fucking minutes of it. Sure, the pitch varies _extremely_ gradually throughout the course of the transmission, and there are three distinct pauses spaced several minutes apart, but that's it.

 

He waits after it's finished, to see if the strange signal will start up again, but the channel closes after several minutes of silence.

 

 _What the fuck_ is _this?_ It's close enough to two hours since his last attempt to contact the ship, so Kirk reopens the channel and tries again. "Kirk to _Enterprise_ , please come in." A pause to wait for a reply is met with that same blank silence. "Guys, I don't know if that was you a minute ago or not, but I didn't get a word out of it. If it _wasn't_ you, we may not be alone out here. I just received an audio signal that lasted..." He checks the comm logs. "Eighteen minutes and nine seconds, consisting mainly of constant noise with no discernible pattern. My communicator looks like it's functioning normally, so either the signal was garbage to begin with or there's some kind of interference blocking proper communications. God, I really hope you guys can hear me."

 

Silence.

 

Kirk hadn't expected a reply, but he can't help but be disappointed anyway. He'd hoped two hours would be long enough to sort out any comms difficulties, but apparently not. And he still has no theories about why the surface of Atalanta is rotating way, _way_ slower than it looked from orbit.

 

He squints up at the sun, trying to gauge how far it's moved since he left the crash site. " _Enterprise_ , I estimate about five hours before sunset. I'd better find shelter before then; God only knows what night is like here. I'll signal again in another two hours. Kirk out."

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later his communicator activates again, broadcasting the same weird droning noise, this time with four pauses in the noise, the entire broadcast lasting close to twenty-seven minutes. And again, forty-one minutes later, another nineteen-minute cycle of noise.

 

Every time, he stops and listens, trying to make out any hint of communication in the garbage coming through the speaker. And every time, it's the same story. Just noise. Nothing helpful. And no one responds when he tries to reply.

 

"Well fuck you too then," Kirk mutters at the communicator, shoving it back on his belt. He doesn't have time to figure this out. The sun is sinking on the horizon, slowly but surely, and he hasn't found a suitable place to spend the night yet.

 

He lucks out around the time when the sun is starting to disappear over the edge of the horizon. A large animal burrow of some kind, dug beneath the widespread roots of a tree, with no signs of recent habitation. It's a bit of a tight squeeze for a six-foot-tall human male, but that just means his flank is protected, leaving only one direction that danger might come from.

 

He spends a few minutes to scrape out the worst of the filth with the collapsible shovel from the survival gear, and digs out a little extra space for himself, including a small alcove into which he stuffs the emergency packs, close enough to grab if he needs them but not within reach of any wildlife who wants to poke around at it. It's not exactly a five-star hotel, but he's slept in worse.

 

But before he settles in, he sits outside the burrow and tries one more time to contact the ship. "Hey _Enterprise_ , it's Kirk again. Anybody listening?"

 

By now, he's expecting the silence, but it doesn't make it any easier to hear. It's like he's shouting into a void, with no idea if anyone even knows he's here. He sighs a little, but he just can't bring himself to close the channel just yet.

 

"I honestly don't know if you can hear me, but... well, anyway. Found a spot to sleep that should be safe enough until morning, but I won't complain if I wake up back on the ship, you know? Feel free to interrupt my beauty sleep if you've got to. I promise, I won't mind." No answer. Not that he thought there would be. "Either way, I'll talk to you in the morning, I guess. Kirk out."

 

He backs into the burrow feet-first, settling into the dirt on his belly, survival knife clenched in his right hand while he tucks his left arm underneath his head. It should feel safe, protected from almost every side, his vulnerable head guarded by his knife hand.

 

But it doesn't. As the sounds of the day creatures fade with the sun, they're replaced with even eerier noises of the nocturnal beasts of Atalanta. A rhythmic whooping sound that scurries between the trees, an annoying chattering that bounces from branch to branch far overhead, and on rare occasion, the sound of something screaming that abruptly cuts off, and then the sounds of something crunching.

 

He dozes uneasily, jerking awake at every weird and threatening sound from the darkened forest around him, holding tight to the knife.

 

It's a long, long night.


	3. Day Two

Kirk isn't really sure how much actual sleep he gets that first night.

 

Between the creepy sounds, the discomfort of lying in the cold dirt, and the mild chill that settles near the ground as night wears on, it's certainly not something he wants to do on a regular basis. But by the time the forest slowly begins to brighten with the dawning sun, it's been thirteen hours according to his wrist chrono, and he's about as well-rested as he could hope for. Which isn't much, to be fair.

 

And of course, he doesn't wake to find himself miraculously transported aboard the _Enterprise_ overnight.

 

He listens for any movement before cautiously crawling out of the burrow, knife held at the ready in case some predator is lurking to ambush him. But there are no signs of large wildlife nearby, just those hand-sized insects from yesterday, gathered on the spines of a spiky bush and just beginning to rouse with the rising sun. Now that they're sitting still, not flitting all over the place, he can see the sharp stinger that adorns the underside of the fat shiny bugs, almost blending in amongst five pairs of legs. _I sure as hell don't want to get stung by one of those fuckers._

 

As much as he hopes today will be the day that rescue comes, he can't be complacent about it. _Plan for the worst and hope for the best._ Better to start thinking about long-term survival _now_ than get blindsided if his salvation doesn’t come in a timely manner. After all, there must be a _reason_ why the _Enterprise_ hasn't rescued him yet.

 

Besides, he doesn't know what else to do with himself in the meantime.

 

But first thing's first, and he finds a suitable tree against which to answer the call of nature. His muscles are stiff and sore as he hobbles over to it, and it's hard to tell how much is from sleeping in a damn hole in the ground and how much is left over from the shuttle crash. He stretches out carefully, suppressing a groan as he tests the full range of motion, aching but functional.

 

Business concluded, he flips open his communicator. The gleaming speck in the sky from yesterday has yet to put in an appearance in the part of the pale lilac sky that he can see through the trees, but it's been hours since his last attempt to hail the ship. No harm in trying. "Kirk to _Enterprise_. Anyone there?"

 

Silence again. Something is very _wrong_ here, and now that he's not as stressed out or concerned with immediate safety, he has the time to start really thinking about it.

 

"Okay, so here's the facts so far," he says to the open frequency. " _Cassini_ decided, all by herself, that doing donuts in atmosphere was such a great idea that she crashed. Observations from orbit calculated Atalanta's days at about three standard minutes, with an even split between day and night, and I just spent about thirteen hours in the dark. I'm guessing daylight's gonna last about the same. And the only signals I've gotten that _might_ be from you guys was so ridiculously drawn-out that anyone saying that shit would've run out of breath long before they got it all out."

 

It sounds absolutely insane. But there's only one real explanation that makes sense, and he sure as fuck doesn't like it.

 

Kirk contemplates in silence for a long moment before raising the communicator towards his mouth again. "Last year, we ran into the Scalosians, who experienced hours over the course of just a few minutes, by our reckoning. That was biological, but... is it possible an entire _planet_ could be hyper-accelerated? Some kind of, I dunno, fast time energy field or something. _Cassini_ was making an angled pass at the upper atmosphere. If part of the shuttle went into the field and the rest didn't, that'd mean a speed differential of... fuck, a _lot_. Enough to spin _Cassini_ like a goddamn top and overwhelm the inertial dampeners."

 

He wants to be wrong. God, he really does. But nothing else makes sense.

 

"Twenty-six hours in three minutes... means my messages are just fucking blips and that's it. _Shit_. And yours would be stupidly long, like the ones I got yesterday."

 

This is worse than he thought, if it's true. It's been maybe twenty hours since _Cassini_ went down, which means that up on the _Enterprise_ it's been only two minutes and some change.

 

_Shit. Shit shit shit._ Even if Spock somehow figures this out right away and comes up with a way to send a rescue shuttle that _won't_ crash on the way down - if it takes him, say, an hour - that's still going to be twenty _days_ down here on the surface. And that's assuming his crew can rapidly come to the right conclusion when they're missing a few very important clues. Clues that _he_ has. But even if they notice his signals and realize they have to slow down his messages to understand them, that's _still_ going to take days on Atalanta.

 

He grips the communicator tightly, forcing down a rising anxiety in his chest. "I have the greatest confidence in you guys. You'll figure this out. But I'd really appreciate it if you'd haul ass on his one. Thanks." What else is there to say? "I'll keep doing regular check-ins. Uhura, you're the best there is at pattern recognition, even if it's just little hiccups. Don't you let me down, lieutenant. Kirk out."

 

The silence has never felt so... heavy. Now he _knows_ that he's alone, far beyond the reach of a swift rescue. The _Enterprise_ is _right fucking there_ , but he can rely on no one but himself.

 

For as long as it takes.

 

_Come on, it's not like you haven't been on your own before. Tarsus, Iowa, the years you spent getting your ass beat in dive bars..._ But these last few years, he hasn't _had_ to be alone, and now that the decision's been taken out of his hands...

 

Well. Anyway.

 

Kirk takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, trying to focus on his predicament, not get stuck wallowing and feeling sorry for himself. _Okay. Better take inventory. If I don't know all I have to work with, I'm only screwing myself._

 

He returns to the burrow and hauls out the emergency packs. This isn't the best spot to lay out everything, but his options are limited, and he lays out the thermal blanket first so he can at least keep it all clean.

 

The emergency medkit is pretty simple, containing very few advanced devices. Just a portable dermal regenerator, a small bone stabilizer, and one lone laser scalpel. The rest is all bare bones compared to McCoy's well-stocked personal kit. Bandages, antiseptic, and a hypospray with only a few basic medication ampoules: mild painkillers, a broad-spectrum antibiotic, and antihistamines. It's enough for basic care and not a lot else, but he hopes he won't need any of it anyway. _Shameful. When I get back to the_ Enterprise _, I want a complete overhaul of the emergency medkits. There's no reason they should be this basic._

 

The survival gear is a little better, fortunately. Rather than fill the kit with single-purpose technological devices, Starfleet has apparently decided to mostly use the older and more versatile tools of the trade. A hundred feet of high-tensile strength paracord, a chain-style pocket saw, fifty feet of fishing line and three barbed hooks, a metal canteen, a fire striker, and a small bottle of water purification chems. The only powered device in the kit is a headlamp. Consumables are limited to a few ration bars and packs of protein nibs, and a half dozen disposable pouches of water, only about a pint each.

 

He sits back on his heels, looking at the small spread of gear. It's compact, all right. Nothing he'll have trouble carrying any kind of distance. And it's more than he had on Tarsus IV. But it's not enough. Not for twenty days.

 

Assuming that's how long it takes, anyway.

 

"Okay," he says out loud, as if he was giving orders, and it's easier to pretend that there are other people here listening to him. Like he isn't totally alone. "Today's top priority is finding water. There's gotta be a river or a lake or something _somewhere_ around here."

 

Of course, the illusion is busted the moment he stops talking, and only the quiet but spooky sounds of the forest answer back.

 

He packs up the gear again and sets off, nibbling on the corner of a ration bar, and hopes that whatever water source he finds isn't where the local predators like to do their hunting.

 

* * *

 

He hears the river before he sees it.

 

It blends in with the rest of the noise of the forest at first, a whispering roar in the backdrop, underneath the weird whistling that only stops when he steps nearby, drowned out by the deep-voiced roars coming from whatever critters flit by overhead. But the farther he walks, the louder it gets, until he finally spots blue through gaps in the trees.

 

Water.

 

The ground changes to gravel as he approaches the riverbank, crunching under his boots. The river looks deep and slow, about thirty feet from bank to bank, cutting down to exposed rock underneath the foliage. He's not entirely alone, either. On the opposite bank, a small group of critters are gathered to drink. Like little coyotes, if coyotes had feathers and scorpion tails, and they make a cacophony of chirping sounds at the sight of him, sizing him up with six beady little eyes apiece, and a few of them start pacing back and forth on the riverbank like they're trying to judge how to get at him.

 

_Shit. I don't think they're just curious._ Kirk keeps a tight grip on the knife, wishing he had a phaser. _Should've at least tied it to a stick or something._

 

But then something snaps in the forest behind him, like something stepping on a branch, and the feathered things turn and flee instantly, chirping in alarm as they vanish into the greenery.

 

Kirk's not stupid enough to think that's a good thing.

 

The riverbank is bare and exposed, with nowhere to hide, and the gravel rattles loudly under him as he scrambles towards the relative safety of the forest. He ducks down behind a stand of those spiky bushes, bugs buzzing angrily around him, and tries to stay absolutely still.

 

Through the small gap in the spikes, he sees something _big_ lumbering out of the treeline. At least fifteen feet long, prowling like a large jungle cat on eight legs, green scales covered in dark blue stripes, with a long narrow snout on one end and a whiplike tail on the other. Sharp claws glint on each of its paws as it moves, sidling up to the river, and it doesn't even bother looking around before bending its head to lap at the water.

 

And it's not alone. Eight more emerge from the forest, though not quite as large as the first, and one of them is only six feet in length, probably a juvenile.

 

_They must be the top predator here... they don't look afraid of anything._

 

And here he is, an interloper in the food chain, armed only with a pitifully tiny survival knife and his wits.

 

One of the adults lifts its head and sniffs, turning its narrow head this way and that, and Kirk realizes it's trying to pick up his scent. Fear grips him in an instant, sinking into his chest like a lead weight. _If they come after me, I'm dead._ He stays absolutely still, holding his breath, ignoring the tickling feeling of one of the giant bugs crawling across his back.

 

God, he wishes this wasn't so familiar.

 

Sure, last time he was twelve years old and half-starved, but he would've been just as dead if Kodos' men had caught him.

 

The narrow snout turns to face his direction, two pairs of eyes blinking out of sync with each other, and it makes a small barking sound. The others all look up at it, and as one, they turn to face the bushes.

 

_Oh, shit._

 

But instead of charging at him, the group of creatures turn toward each other and begin making low noises, almost like they're whispering to each other. And after several minutes, the entire group moves off down the riverbank, claws scraping on the rocks as they go. The big one is the last to leave, all four eyes fixed on the bushes where Kirk is hiding, like it's waiting for _him_ to make a move. But it too disappears around the bend sooner or later, casting one last look over its shoulder.

 

_They know I'm here. But they didn't attack, or investigate. Why?_

 

It could be a trap. Trying to lull him into a false sense of security. So he stays where he is, alert to every sound in the forest around him, trying to listen to anything that sounds like something sneaking up on him. But there's nothing but the buzzing of the giant insects, and the bizarre animal calls he's come to know over the past day, echoing through the trees.

 

 Twenty minutes pass, with no sign of the creatures' return. But he can hear the chirping of the feathered critters coming back, and this time, some of them sound like they're on his side of the river.

 

_Nope. Not dealing with this shit right now._ Kirk stands gently brushes off the bugs that are crawling around on his shirt, and sets off into the woods again. _I know where water is. That's a start._

_But I think I'd better sleep in a tree tonight._


	4. Day Five

"Hey _Enterprise_ , Kirk here again. Still no luck on your end, huh? Guess it's only been like fifteen minutes, but _still_. C'mon guys, you're killing me here."

 

Kirk scratches at his face, easing the itch of stubble on his chin as he speaks, and from his perch high in the branches of a tree, he can see the shining speck of the _Enterprise_ hanging in the sky, maybe a fraction of a degree closer to the sun than it was when his wait began. So close, in plain sight, but still out of reach. Taunting him.

 

"Looks like there's rain coming in," he adds, spotting the gathering clouds on the horizon. "Hopefully I'll be done by the time it gets here. I haven't had any bad weather yet. Though if I'm lucky, nothing else will be out hunting in the rain either. Talk to you again in a couple hours. Kirk out."

 

He clips his communicator back on his belt, and reaches up to the branch above his head to retrieve the crude bow he's spent the last day making. It's pretty ugly, rough wood scraped smooth with the cutting edge of the entrenching shovel, and strung with a few feet of fishing line. Though if the bow is ugly, his arrows are even moreso, little more than straight sharpened sticks with bits of leaves tied to one end to act as fletching.

 

He's never properly bow hunted before. It's a skill that has long since fallen out of fashion, outside some low-tech colonies that still rely on local food sources for subsistence. But after surviving Tarsus, he's never quite trusted the reliance on technology for food, and spent a year learning how to target shoot from a competitive archer from Rigel II.

 

_Hope I'm not too rusty at this. It's been a few years._

 

With nothing else to use as a quiver, he's cut off one sleeve of his gold uniform shirt, tying the shoulder closed and using a small loop of fishing line to attach it to his belt. It's a little clumsy, but it keeps the arrows easily accessible, and that's all he really needs.

 

He keeps the rest of the dirty, damaged shirt with the rest of his gear, a bright gold flag against the greenery marking its location, tucked into the crook of a branch twenty feet above the forest floor.

 

Maybe it's stupid to leave his gear behind, but he's become at least somewhat familiar with the area around the river, and he's confident that he can find his way back. Besides... he can't risk any unnecessary noise giving him away.

 

He checks to make sure the knife is tucked securely into his boot, then carefully climbs down the tree to the forest floor. The usual animal chatter continues, still eerie to his ears, but becoming familiar now. _I'm not sure that's a good thing._

 

He keeps an arrow nocked but undrawn as he moves through the woods, and though he tries to step quietly, it isn't as easy as it sounds. Leaves rustle, sticks break, stinger-bugs buzz angrily at his passage, and more than once he hears something scurrying away as quickly as its little legs will carry it.

 

A chirp from his right drawn his attention immediately, and he pivots on one foot, drawing back the arrow in one fluid motion. A chorus of chirping begins, excited and _eager_ , but the sounds aren't drawing any closer. And now that he's listening, he can hear an odd growling behind the chirps, the vocalizations of an entirely different animal.

 

_I should get out of here._ That would be the smart thing to do.

 

But he's acutely aware that he only has a few days of food left, and if there's one lesson Tarsus taught him, it's that there's no shame in scavenging someone else's leftovers. Food is food. It doesn't matter where it came from, or whether you get the best parts or the scraps that something else didn't want.

 

_If they've got something cornered, they might not be interested in me. And there might be something left to salvage once they're done._

 

Keeping the bow at the ready, Kirk moves towards the sounds of the excited featherfiends.

 

There's a small ravine about a half mile away, and as he cautiously approaches, he can hear snarling and yelping, and a very young-sounding bark, almost more of a yipping, really. And as he peers over the edge of the ravine, he understands why.

 

The featherfiends have trapped one of the long-snouted predators, the smallest of the creatures he saw at the river three days ago, backing it into a dead end. It's bleeding from gaps in its scales, dark blue blood trickling from patterns consistent with the shape of the featherfiends' teeth, and the longsnout lifts its head to cry out again, a plaintive plea for help.

 

_Where are the others?_ If they were nearby, Kirk is certain that the adults would already have come to the aid of their offspring.

 

He shouldn't care. It's just as likely that he'd find it as edible as anything else here, and the pack animals don't seem to be having any trouble taking it down.

 

But there's a blatant panic in those four wide eyes, a note of terror in its cries, a scream for help that isn't coming, and even though it's a big ugly eight-legged lizard thing, he's seen that look before.

 

From people.

 

On Tarsus.

 

It's just a _kid_.

 

He knows it's a stupid move before he does it anyway. Kirk fires an arrow at the chirping predators, and though he doesn't even come close to hitting the one he was aiming at, there are so many of the critters that the sharp stick buries itself in the back of another. The featherfiends whistle in alarm, jumping back from their wounded fellow, and Kirk takes advantage of the confusion to fire again. Another creature goes down - still not the one he was aiming at - and apparently this is the breaking point for the pack, because they scatter, scrambling away from their injured packmates, down the ravine, scorpion tails raised high over their backs as they run.

 

The young longsnout looks bewildered, its desperate cries cut off mid-wail out of shock, and it creeps forward to sniff at the writhing, wounded creatures and the crude arrows sticking out of them. Then, to Kirk's surprise, it cranes its long neck back, searching the edge of the ravine. _Looking for me? It knows where the arrows came from._ That's... a lot smarter than he was expecting it to be.

 

And when it locks its four eyes on him, it looks almost... surprised.

 

But one of the injured featherfiends draws its attention again, and the young longsnout lunges forward, snapping the wounded animal's neck in a single bite.

 

_Okay, yeah, just a kid but still deadly. Better get out of here before it decides I'm next._

 

* * *

 

He doesn't manage to successfully take down anything else before the rain sets in.

 

It starts as a light drizzle, dampening his black undershirt and making it cling uncomfortably to his torso, but before long his boots are squelching through mud, and the almost misty rain ramps up into a downpour, forcing him to run for shelter. He returns to the tree where he's stashed his gear and wraps himself up in the thermal blanket, shivering a little from the chill. The canopy of leaves overhead keep out some of the rain, but he's still getting wet, cold fat raindrops splashing against his exposed face.

 

And what's worse, his stomach won't stop growling.

 

"What I wouldn't give for a big greasy cheeseburger right now," he mutters out loud. Though to be honest, he'd eat almost anything at the moment. Ration bars are fine, but they're so fucking _bland_. It reminds him of the tasteless crap Starfleet fed him when the rescue ships finally arrived, all those years ago.

 

But he doesn't really want to think about food right now, either. It'll only make him hungrier.

 

He huddles beneath the thermal blanket and fumbles for his communicator. He's got nothing else to do. "Hey Uhura, me again. My first hunt didn't go so well, and now I'm freezing my ass off up a tree. I'd ask how your day is going, but I've got a pretty good idea."

 

He doesn't bother to hold back a sigh of frustration. "It's just so _stupid_ , you know? I know you're not even hearing this, but I'm so tired of it already. I miss you guys. And I'm mad at myself for not just being grateful that I'm not fucking _dead_. Stephens and Fischer should be here with me and they're not, and I'm griping about a little rain and not being good at something I haven't done since I was a kid."

 

He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, not caring about the chilly raindrops running down his face. "And it's not even like I can't deal with being hungry and uncomfortable. I've done this shit before when I was a _lot_ younger and had no clue what I was doing. I could've let the featherfiends kill my dinner for me and I wouldn't be bitching about it now. But the look on that thing's face... it was how Kevin looked, when they came for us. The same expression I saw on so many people when Kodos... well anyway. I just couldn't do it. Some fucking hunter I am."

 

He shakes his head a little and pulls the thermal blanket a little higher around his neck. "I'll start experimenting with plants tomorrow. Tell Bones not to worry; I know how to test them without killing myself on accident, and I'm not going to touch any mushrooms. There's gotta be something I can gather. And hey, look at it this way, Bones... you might end up being able to treat the first confirmed case of scurvy in over a century once I get back. 'Cuz I have no idea how I'm going to get all my recommended vitamins and minerals just by guessing."

 

He stops and considers that for a moment. "You know, in addition to better-stocked medkits, I don't see why the survival gear doesn't include a basic tricorder. I can figure out what's edible without it, but I don't have a way to find out if it's actually going to do anything for me or not."

 

Kirk falls silent, listening to the rain hit the tops of the trees, dripping down to splash against the soft earth below. And he shakes himself a little when he realizes he's actually waiting for an answer, even though he knows damn well no one's there. _You're losing it after five days? Pathetic. Get your shit together, Jim._

 

But it doesn't seem right to just... stop talking.

 

Because then he'll have to stop pretending someone's listening when he calls.

 

And he's not ready to let go of that yet, because then he'll have nothing to think about but how _alone_ he really is.

 

"You're a good listener, Nyota," he says instead, imagining the look on her face if she could hear him using her first name. Probably something between fond exasperation and suspicion that he wants something out of her. "I've always liked that about you. You always know the right thing to say to people. Thanks for being there for me. And... tell Spock I expect to find my ship just how I left her, all right? No joyriding while the captain's away." He closes his eyes again, wishing more than anything that he could have just this small connection with another living being. "I'll call again tomorrow. Kirk out."

 

* * *

 

Night falls, and the rain continues its deluge.

 

Being up a tree in a rainstorm isn't the ideal place to be. He's well aware of that, especially when the skies above rumble threateningly, rolling from one side of the sky to the other. But there's nowhere else with a decent roof around, and the thermal blanket is waterproof, so he's able to keep relatively dry.

 

And his decision is affirmed all the more when he hears a snorting sound near the base of the tree.

 

Immediately alert, he snaps on the headlamp and shines it down towards the ground, and gets his first glimpse of one of Atalanta's nocturnal predators.

 

It's like something out of a fucking nightmare.

 

A dozen eyes stare hungrily up at him, set in one single sunken face, lips curled back from sharp fangs, skin stretched over a bony frame with too many limbs. It's like being eyed up by a spider the size of a bear, and he recoils, scrambling upwards, just that little bit further away from the horror circling the base of the tree.

 

"Get out of here!" he shouts at it, and it claws at the bark, scraping down to bare wood in a matter of moments, undeterred. It's a very small comfort that the damn thing doesn't seem able to climb up after him.

 

But arrows don't dissuade it, bouncing harmlessly off into the brush, and the blinding light from the headlamp only makes it hiss and circle around to the other side of the tree, trying anew to get at him.

 

With cold rain pouring down from above and a fanged monstrosity circling below, Kirk doesn't sleep a wink all night.


	5. Day Six

The Fucking Nightmare, as Kirk has decided to call it, doesn't leave him alone until about three hours before dawn. It hisses at him one last time before melting into the shadows of the forest, but holy _shit_ does he ever feel unsafe.

 

He's drained and shaking from the cold, his heart pounding at a million miles an hour, and somehow the absence of the Fucking Nightmare doesn't reassure him much, knowing that it's out there somewhere and he has no idea where.

 

_At least the rain's stopped._

 

He really needs to start a fire, to get dried off and warmed up. But _hell_ no, he's not coming down from this tree before daylight. Maybe not even then. Maybe he'll spend the rest of his life up here, away from all the freaky scary shit that this planet wants to throw at him.

 

_Here lies Captain Kirk, treed by a Fucking Nightmare, never to be seen again._

 

Well that's a shitty epitaph. So he supposes he'll have to come down and get on with the process of surviving.

 

Eventually.

 

It seems like forever before the sky begins to take on that beautiful lilac shade of daylight, and a wave of exhaustion hits him so hard that he almost falls out of the tree, his body apparently deciding it's safe enough to relax. He sways dangerously, and fumbles for the paracord, roughly lashing himself to the tree trunk against his back, so he can't topple off the branch.

 

_I won't be any good for anything unless I get some shuteye._

 

But as tired as he is, it's difficult to drop off to sleep, startling at every rustle, every snapped twig near the base of the tree, a jolt of adrenaline flooding through his heart every time. Every sound could be that _thing_ coming back for him, and it's hard to convince his body that the danger is gone for now.

 

Instinct is a hell of a thing.

 

He can't stop thinking about all the noises he's heard every night, wondering just how much he lucked out that first night in the burrow, vulnerable on the ground. How close he might've come to not making it long enough to realize _why_ there's been no rescue. And the _Enterprise_ still might never know what happened to _Cassini_ , if he's not careful.

 

Uneasy thoughts follow him into uneasy sleep, dreaming of monsters chasing him down dark corridors, reaching spindly legs out to drag him into a gaping red maw, and he screams for help and no one comes.

 

He jolts awake hours later, the sun already high in the sky, his communicator active and broadcasting the usual constant droning noise at him. " _Enterprise_?" he mumbles into the comm, his thoughts still muddled with sleep, caught in the endless fear of what lurks in the dark, and he can't resist a quick glance down at the base of the tree, making sure the Fucking Nightmare didn't creep back to haunt him again as he slept.

 

The broadcast from the ship isn't remotely understandable, like before, the message far too drawn out to comprehend. Kirk uses the time it's active to wake himself up properly, untying himself from the tree and folding up the thermal blanket. His clothes are still awfully damp, and he could really use a shower.

 

_Maybe I can kill two birds with one stone,_ he muses, craning his neck back to look skyward, and noting the absence of clouds. _Should be a warm day today. If I can find a safe spot in the river to bathe, it'd give my clothes a chance to dry out._

 

But there's no way he's going to go unarmed, not even to wash off six days of grime, not with all the horrible alien predators he's seen prowling around this planet since the crash.

 

He carefully balances the open communicator on the branch he's sitting on, and busies his hands with cutting a length of paracord to tether the survival knife to his wrist. As he works, the transmission goes quiet, apparently reaching the end of whatever hail they sent him this time.

 

_My turn to talk._ "Good morning, _Enterprise_ ," he says out loud as he works, "how's the last couple minutes been? I just had _the_ worst night I've had so far, and I honestly don't know if I'll ever sleep without nightmares again. What kind of sadistic planet is this, anyway? Featherfiends and longsnouts by day, Fucking Nightmares by night. And now I'm seriously planning to go get naked on an alien planet full of creatures that want to eat me because I'm cold, wet, and tired of smelling like I haven't bathed in a week. Y'know, because I haven't."

 

He tests the knot in the cord, satisfied that it won't unravel on its own, and tucks the handle underneath the loop around his wrist, holding it in place against his arm. "And all I've got to keep them from having me for lunch is a knife and the shittiest arrows you've ever seen in your life. It's great. Spock, if I die, you and Bones can split my stuff."

 

He doesn't feel nearly the amount of bravado he's projecting to an audience of no one, but it's hard to break the habits of a lifetime. And in a way, it's easier to get up the courage to do it by faking that he already has it. _I can't let some monster in the night scare me shitless during the day, not when I have more relevant things to be scared of. And if I don't do this sometime soon, every critter in the forest is going to be able to smell me coming from a mile away._

 

It's bad enough that there isn't going to be any soap. Nor deodorant, nor toothpaste, or any of the other modern accoutrements that'd make him feel a little more human. But he has to make do with what he's got.

 

It's all he _can_ do.

 

* * *

 

He hikes along the river for an hour before he finds a good spot. A small waterfall cascades over a rocky overhang on one side of the river, forming a small alcove around a deep pool beneath the falling water, reducing the directions he needs to look to keep an eye out for predators. On the other side, a larger waterfall dumps the majority of the flow downstream, a low roar that should help cover any noise he makes, to avoid drawing undue attention to himself.

 

He sets his pack down on the gravel riverbank, laying out his bow and arrows nearby. Even knowing that there's no one around to see him, he feels oddly vulnerable as he strips out of his damp clothes. "Won't make any difference against claws anyway; it's not like it _matters_ ," he mutters to himself, and eases into the running water, only lightly warmed by the sun. But it's a soothing balm against sore muscles, sweeping up to his waist as he wades a little deeper, ducking his clothes under the surface and scrubbing at the fabric with his fingertips. They're not going to be spotless, but at least they'll be cleaner.

 

He wrings out as much water as he can and lays out his clothes to dry on a flat rock, near where he's stashed his bow and arrows. Then he returns to the alcove and cautiously submerges completely for a moment, scrubbing his hands through his hair to rinse out six days' worth of dirt and sweat.

 

He can't really relax, not completely, constantly keeping a wary eye on the shore for movement - and to make sure no curious critters run off with his clothes. But it's the closest thing to real rest that he's had since the crash.

 

Kirk spends a good long while in the water, letting himself enjoy feeling clean for the first time in days, reassured by the comfortable weight of the knife strapped to his forearm. And once he's had enough, he stretches out on a dry rock, letting the sun evaporate the water from his skin. It's almost peaceful, if he makes himself forget that there are several different species of animal out there that would love to have a starship captain as a snack.

 

One of which is... watching him.

 

The knife is in his hand in the moment he realizes he's being observed, and he leaps to his feet, brandishing the woefully inadequate weapon at the creature peering out from the treeline.

 

It's the juvenile longsnout, the same one from the ravine yesterday. He recognizes the patterns of scabs on its scales, what little of them he can see anyway, and it ducks down closer to the ground as if to hide from his sight, its blue and green striped hide camouflaging well against the underbrush. If he hadn't been looking right at it when it moved, he'd never have known it was there.

 

_Stalking me?_ Somehow, that doesn't ring true. The creature clearly doesn't want him to know it's watching him, but it makes no move to attack, apparently content to just blink its four eyes at him from a distance. And he can't see any sign of the adults either.

 

"It's curious," Kirk murmurs. _Of course._ It's a kid, and it's never seen a human before. Doesn't mean it won't try to investigate how tasty he is once it's done looking at him, but for the moment at least, it seems content to observe him from afar.

 

Well as long as it stays way the hell over there in the meantime, that's just fine with him. He doesn't take his eyes off it though, unwilling to trust that its curiosity will last. His clothes are mostly dry, and he pulls them back on, foregoing the shirt for the moment so he doesn't lose sight of his curious little predator friend. A weak moment like that might be too much for it to resist.

 

"Hey there," he says out loud, and the longsnout drops down another fraction of an inch, like it's pretending he can't see it. "I had a long night trying not to get eaten by a Fucking Nightmare, so if you don't mind, I'd rather not do it all again with you once you're done eyeing up the goods."

 

The longsnout, of course, doesn't respond, simply stares at him with those big black eyes, each pair blinking out of sync with the other.

 

"Yeah, okay. Enjoy the Human Show. I hope it's entertaining." He drapes the undershirt over one shoulder and picks up the bow and arrows, dropping his gaze only for an instant to nock an arrow properly. But when he looks back up, he's lost sight of the creature.

 

_Shit, that's just great._

 

_Time to find a better tree._

 

He grabs his pack and sets off into the forest, away from the spot where he last saw the creature, hyper aware of every trace of movement, every tiny little sound, any clues that something might be hunting him.

 

He doesn't see any sign of that.

 

It's not reassuring.

 

* * *

 

He hikes another five miles before he finds a tree that he likes. Standing by itself, far apart from any other trees or giant mushrooms, with widespread branches starting thirty feet up. _I can make a roof... lay out dead branches and cover them with leaves and moss. That way I won't get wet the next time it rains._

 

And with such a clear base of the trunk to work with, there has to be a way he can set up some kind of critter deterrent. But he only has about two hours of useful daylight left to work with, and that's far more important than planning to keep the rain off when today's perfectly clear out, so he gets to work.

 

It's a simple thing, sharpening sticks and branches, and planting them in the dirt at an angle around the trunk, until the ground around the roots bristle like a porcupine. He leaves only a narrow path for himself to pass through, and hopes like hell that it's enough to keep any more Fucking Nightmares at bay. Better yet if they don't find this tree tonight at all.

 

The forest is just starting to dim as he climbs up to his new shelter and ties himself in for the night, and as he flips open his communicator, he realizes that it's been hours since his last check-in. So much for keeping up a pattern. "Kirk to _Enterprise_ , sorry I'm late. I made a _wonderful_ new friend who may or may not want to eat me. Or maybe it was just admiring me being naked, which, you know, I can't really blame it." He chuckles a little, trying to find the lighter side of this whole ordeal, so he doesn't have to think about just how many creatures on this planet want to find out what humans taste like.

 

"I didn't get around to testing out any plants today. I've got enough food for another two days before I'm out, so that'll be priority one tomorrow, even if I have to make the time to do it. You'd think with thirteen hours of useful daylight, that wouldn't be a problem, right? It's not so easy when you spend half the day sleeping because you were up all night in case monsters figure out how to climb trees, but that shouldn't be a problem tonight, if I'm lucky." He shakes his head a little. "I found a better tree to camp out in, and I'm hoping it'll take a while before that thing figures out where I've gone, so I should sleep better tonight. I hope."

 

"Still miss you guys. I'm getting kinda tired of hearing nobody else talking but me." He sighs, and leans his head back against the trunk of the tree at his back. "I'm still counting on you. I know you won't let me down. Kirk out."


	6. Day Eleven

Identifying edible plants isn't difficult, but it is time-consuming.

 

He devotes an entire day to gathering every kind of plant that he can find, and allows three days to test his body's reaction to them. He's able to rule out more than half of them before he even gets to the tasting stage, turned off by bitter smells or tiny thorns, and he learns the hard way that even just touching the tiny red berries that grow on the spiky bushes will cause his hands to break out in a horrible itchy rash.

 

By the time he's singled out his best candidates for food sources, he's been out of Starfleet rations for two full days.

 

It isn't much. Two types of leaves, blue-shelled nuts that - weirdly - taste like salted carrots, and a squishy fruit that reminds him of overripe cherry tomatoes. Definitely nothing to write home about. But it quiets the constant rumble his belly, and it doesn't come back up again, so it'll have to do for now.

 

But honestly... the food problem is the least of his worries.

 

Kirk jerks awake after another restless night, the eerie cries of the Fucking Nightmare still echoing in his head, and he nearly falls out of the tree in his haste to see if one of the monsters is still circling the trunk. But though some of his defense line has been damaged and the sharpened sticks are stained with black ichor, the beast has disappeared with the night like it's supposed to.

 

He leans back against the trunk and rubs his hands over his face, unable to stop the trembling in his hands, the burning in his eyes, the heavy exhaustion weighing down on him. He hasn't slept through the night once the entire time he's been on Atalanta.

 

He can't. Not with Fucking Nightmares and God knows what else prowling the woods at night, and featherfiends and longsnouts during the day. It doesn't really matter how safe his shelter up in the tree really is. No one could sleep soundly with ravenous wild animals pacing just out of reach. And he can't make it up during the daylight hours either, needing to use all the time he can to gather food, to scout out the area, to fortify his shelter.

 

_How long can I keep doing this?_

 

"Hey there, _Enterprise_ ," he says into his communicator, and he doesn't have the energy to be surprised at how weak his voice sounds. He half-heartedly clears his throat, and fumbles for his canteen, sipping at the lukewarm water within. "It's been more than a half hour on your end, right? Any chance you're coming to pick me up today? I could really use a nap someplace where I won't get eaten alive. This sleeping-in-a-tree thing's gotten really old, and my back's not happy with me anymore."

 

There's no answer, as usual, and he keeps going without waiting for a reply. "Now that I've figured out what plants I can eat without dying horribly, I'm going to spend today gathering as much as I can find. I'm pretty sure I saw a whole grove of those tomato-berry trees down by the waterfall. The river... I haven't seen any fish yet, but I haven't spent much time there either. Sitting on my ass waiting for something to bite still sounds like a great way to get ambushed, but I need to get more protein or I'm in big trouble. I've been practicing with the bow, but I don't know if I could hit anything moving... I guess I could always try eating those stinger-bugs; they definitely look meaty enough. Don't know if it's worth the risk of getting stung though. Guess that's what I'll have to try if I can't come up with anything else."

 

He's aware that he's rambling now, but he's too tired to care. "So yeah, that's today's plan. Find food, don't die. Same as yesterday, and the day before, and the day before. God, I'd kill for a cup of coffee right now."

 

He snaps the communicator closed, not even bothering to sign off. _No one's listening anyway._

 

* * *

 

Exhausted or not, his body knows better than to fall into a complacent, foggy autopilot as he hikes through the woods.

 

His arrows are a little better now, fire-hardened and fletched with feathers he's found abandoned on the forest floor, probably from those vicious little pack animals he's run into before. He's restrung the bow, too, bending the wood a little further to add to its launching power. He carries both at the ready, ears alert for sounds of approaching danger, eyes sweeping the foliage for the plants he's deemed edible, and for signs of predators. He travels light, the survival pack slung across his back, emptied of all its contents save for the fishing line and hooks. And he hopes that by the time he returns to the tree, he'll have found enough food to fill it.

 

By now, he's gotten used to the sounds of Atalanta's forests, and he knows which noises he can safely dismiss. He ignores the roaring, fluttering creatures that dart past overhead, harmless and far too quick, too small to shoot down, not worth the effort of trying. The scurrying critters in the undergrowth, too, are something he can disregard for the same reasons. But the chirping sounds... those he steers clear of, not wanting to tangle with featherfiends on the hunt, even if it means he has to hike an extra mile or two to avoid the pack.

 

The longsnouts are what really worry him.

 

Aside from tracks, densely-packed claw marks in the dirt - some of which are relatively fresh - he hasn't seen or heard any signs of the beasts. And with as easily as they blend in with the foliage, he's not sure he _will_ see them coming until it's too late.

 

He doesn't feel like he's being stalked, but that doesn't mean he isn't.

 

But he makes it to the river in one piece, following the roar of the waterfall up ahead to find the stand of small trees he saw on his last visit, their branches heavy with the little yellow fruits. More than he can carry back in one trip. That's not the plan, anyway.

 

Kirk doesn't go straight for the trees, prowling around the perimeter to check for predators, listening for any sign that he's not alone. A small flock of those howler-birds flushes out of the bushes at his approach, angrily roaring at him as they fly past, and upon further investigation, he finds a pair of nests hidden amongst the leaves, each holding three eggs the size of ping-pong balls. "Jackpot," he murmurs, gently slipping them into the emptied survival pack. "Sorry, guys."

 

He feels better about this trip already.

 

Ignoring the angry sounds of the howler-birds up above, he returns to the grove and begins to fill the pack with tomato-berries, careful not to disturb his precious cargo. "What I wouldn't give for a frying pan," he mutters, but there's a tired smile on his face for the first time in days. Sure, he's still stranded on a planet alone with monsters trying to eat him almost every night, and he could really use a hot shower and a good night's sleep. But now he knows where to find food, and there's enough of it that he can afford to be choosy in his selections, picking only the ripest-looking fruit and avoiding the ones that have already been nibbled on, and allowing him to eat as he works and still have plenty left to take back to camp.

 

But it seems a shame to just turn around and go back so soon, with the river right there.

 

There's still no sign of predators nearby that he can see, so he hikes along the treeline until he finds a strong, sturdy stick and ties the fishing line to the end of it. There's a flat boulder in the middle of the river just downstream from the short waterfall, inches above the surface of the water, with enough clear space around it to easily see any predator trying to sneak up on him. It's as close to a safe spot as he's going to be able to find.

 

It's worth the risk.

 

* * *

 

He's being watched again.

 

Kirk feels eyes on him well before he sees them, the little hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, a jolt of adrenaline purging the cloud of exhaustion from his head. Some of the animal noises have quieted, on the far bank. He scans the edge of the forest, seeing nothing but the usual trees and bushes, but something doesn't look _right_ somehow.

 

_Trust your instincts, Jim._

 

He hasn't managed to catch anything in an hour of fishing anyway. Either there are no fish, or they don't like tomato-berries, which is the only bait he has. He starts pulling in the fishing line, keeping a wary eye on the treeline.

 

There. Movement.

 

He doesn't turn his head, pretending that he's focused on what he's doing, but slides his gaze sideways, not wanting to let on that he's seen...

 

The young longsnout. Again.

 

The eight-legged lizard creature is slowly creeping forward, belly hugging the ground, both pairs of eyes fixed on the captain. It stops just at the edge of the graveled riverbank, like it knows that its hide won't camouflage it once it leaves the brush, and settles on its stomach, tucking its legs underneath its body.

 

Not to pounce. But to _watch_ him.

 

Just watch.

 

_Huh._

 

Kirk turns his head to look right at it, and he hopes to God that it isn't like making eye contact with an angry dog. "Hello," he says out loud, and the longsnout blinks at him, looking surprised by the noise. But it doesn't move.

 

_Almost like it's afraid it'll scare_ me _off._

 

"You're not as sneaky as you think, you know," he continues, continuing to wrap the fishing line around one hand, and once it's coiled, he tucks it in the survival pack, embedding the hook in the fabric so it won't puncture anything accidentally. "I've seen you watching me before. And where _are_ your parents, anyway? I know they're not sneaking up on me while you're playing cute, because you don't want me to see you."

 

There's more than twenty feet of water separating him from the animal, but he hasn't seen these things try to swim yet, so that isn't reassuring. _For all I know, they're like crocodiles._

 

But it seems content to just sit there, so he doesn't make a move to take up the knife or bow yet. It's shown that it's smart enough to recognize what a weapon is, and it might take that as provocation to attack.

 

So he cautiously eyes the creature, and crouches down low on the boulder, resting his elbows on his knees. He'll be able to draw the knife from his boot in seconds if the longsnout comes at him, and he stands a better chance of injuring it with that than any of his shitty homemade arrows. Plus now they're roughly at eye level with each other, which seems more fair somehow.

 

The creature shifts slightly, lifting its head a little and cocking it to the side. And it makes a noise in its long throat, an inquisitive _chirrup_ , barely audible over the gentle roar of the waterfall.

 

"Yeah, I know you don't understand me. I don't really get you, either. This is the third time I've seen you on your own. I would've thought you'd learned your lesson when I had to save your butt from those feathery little bastards last week. Am I really that interesting? It's because I don't have a million legs like everything else does here, right?"

 

The longsnout, of course, says nothing, just watches him, settling its narrow chin back on the edge of the gravel, and it lets out a quiet huff of breath.

 

Without an imminent threat, the adrenaline rush is starting to wear off, and Kirk sways a little, feeling more tired than he was when he started. "Look, I'd love to stay and chat, but I've had a rough couple of days," he says, straightening back up to his full height. "And if I head back now, I might have a chance to catch some shuteye before the Fucking Nightmares come out from whatever hell they stay at during the day. So if it's all the same to you, I'm just gonna leave, all right?"

 

Slowly, cautiously, he reaches up to unsling the bow from his shoulder. The longsnout tenses, digging its claws into the dirt, but it doesn't charge at him or flee. _Okay, good. Take it easy._

 

One step at a time, he eases himself off the boulder and into the shallows, taking slow deliberate steps until he's safe on the opposite shore. The creature makes an odd sound, almost like a whine, and gets to its feet. But it doesn't move to cross the river to get at him, just watching him go.

 

But he keeps glancing over his shoulder the rest of the way back to the tree, just in case.


	7. Day Sixteen

The sun rises over Atalanta, hidden behind heavy gray clouds.

 

It doesn't matter. Kirk knows exactly where the _Enterprise_ is, and he casts tired eyes upwards at where it would be, if not for the rain blocking it from his sight. If not for the makeshift roof he's constructed out of branches and moss high in the shelter tree, keeping him from getting drenched in the downpour.

 

It's been raining for two days now.

 

On the one hand, now that he's been able to gather food and bring it back to the relative safety of the tree, he can afford to take a day or two off from foraging, freeing him up to catch up on some of the sleep he's lost every night since the crash. But humans just aren't meant to sleep in hard, cold trees, and there's a deep ache settling into his back and thighs that just won't go away, no matter what he does. And what little sleep he does manage during the day doesn't seem to make much difference in how strong he feels, a familiar weakness working its way into his muscles, echoes of a time he'd rather forget altogether.

 

He needs more protein. The howler-bird eggs help, when he can find them, but there just aren't enough to make up for the lack of real meat. And unless he suddenly improves drastically with the bow, there's only one feasible option left. It's risky, but he has to chance it.

 

He flips open his communicator to make his daily check-in, so tired of talking without any reply, never knowing if he'll ever be heard. "You already know who it is. It's still pouring out. I've got enough rabbit food to last the day, but it's not cutting it anymore, and I still haven't caught any fish. So Bones, if I get stung and die, feel free to tell me 'I told you so.'"

 

It won't be the first time he's eaten bugs. But none of the insect life on Tarsus IV was venomous, nor were they so ridiculously _big_.

 

But that's a good thing, he hopes. It'll mean he only has to catch a few to get enough to eat, and they're big enough he might be able to spear them without risking getting stung. _As long as its buddies don't attack me in retaliation, anyway._

 

He hasn't made a spear before, but he knows the basics. Find a sturdy straight stick, use the knife to split the widest end lengthwise, and wedge twigs in the gaps to keep the splinters apart before sharpening the ends into points. More chances to hit, less chance for the prey to wriggle off the end. Should be more accurate than trying to hunt with the bow, too, but the trade-off is that he has to be a lot closer to his intended target. Close enough for whatever he's stabbing at to hit him back.

 

But desperate times call for desperate measures, and after sixteen days without any indication that his crew is coming to get him anytime soon, he has to assume that rescue is not as imminent as he wishes it was. He could be rescued in two weeks, or it could be tomorrow, but he has no way to know. So he has to proceed forth on the assumption that he's on his own.

 

It really _is_ like Tarsus, in a way.

 

Except this time, potential food is everywhere. He just has to find it.

 

The rain is tapering down as he sets off on the hunt, and stinger-bugs are everywhere, buzzing around beneath the shelter of the trees, flitting from tree to tree. Like everything else here, they have no fear of him, ignoring his presence as long as he stays away. He watches them closely, waiting to see when they will land, trying to decide the best time to strike. It'd be beyond stupid to try to spear them midair. Or in the spiky bushes where they rest at night, their leaves sharp enough to slice his hands like razor blades.

 

Every so often, however, one of them lands on the trunk of a tree, lapping at a small trickle of sap oozing through damaged bark, scraped away by Fucking Nightmares or some other large creature he hasn't seen yet.

 

Kirk sneaks up on one of the bugs, spear at the ready, wary that the giant arthropod might suddenly turn on him and sting him. A quick jab forward, a loud crunch, and the stinger-bug is impaled on the end of the spear, writhing and buzzing. All around him, the rest of the insects take flight, their wings buzzing angrily, and his shoulder suddenly erupts in blinding pain as a stinger buries itself in his skin, ten sharp legs digging in to anchor the bug in place so it can sting him again.

 

_Time to go._

 

He knocks away the bug with the back of his hand, grabs the spear, and _runs_.

 

He's stung several more times before he outpaces the angry swarm, but he clutches the spear like his life depends on it. Maybe it does. And when he finally stumbles to his knees in the middle of fucking _nowhere_ , the bug impaled at the end of the spear is dead, its body limp.

 

"Score one for the mighty hunter," he mutters out loud, woozy from the pain. God, those stingers _hurt_. It's like hot pokers sizzling away at him, fire shooting through his shoulder, his lower back, his forearm, and trembling fingers can feel sharp little lumps under the surface of the skin, like little splinters. _Shit... those have to come out. Could be poisoning me._

 

He has no tweezers, no suction, nothing but a knife to dig out the stingers.

 

But he has no other choice.

 

Kneeling in the middle of the forest, far away from the shelter of his tree, he drops the spear and draws the knife from his boot with shaking hands. It takes him three tries to cut the right place on his arm, blood trails snaking down and dripping down onto the dirt.

 

And he's not done yet.

 

He grits his teeth and repeats the procedure with the other stingers, blood soaking into his black undershirt, and the burning doesn't stop, only hurting all the more for the cuts he's inflicted on himself in the process. There's fuck-all he can do if the stingers are poisoned, if enough venom has made it into him to cause any kind of life-threatening emergency. He's on his own.

 

And now he's going to be leaving a blood trail back to the safest place he's found so far.

 

"Not cool," he mutters, sheathing the knife in his boot again. _This stupid thing had better be edible after all this._

 

* * *

 

He makes it to the river by midday, and though he's tired and hurting, he still takes the time to make sure there are no nasty surprises waiting for him. The pack of featherfiends is a half mile upriver, and Kirk immediately hikes in the opposite direction along the shore, putting as much distance between him and them as possible before they see him.

 

He trudges along for a half hour before he calls it good enough, and starts gathering enough fallen wood to make a fire, building it up on the gravel riverbank and striking the dull edge of the knife against a rock to create a spark. Before too long, he has a small campfire blazing, and he skewers the stinger-bug, propping it up over the flame. "Don't you fall in while I'm gone," he mumbles to the dead insect.

 

It's not as protected of a spot as the waterfall, but he knows he has to wash off the blood before he heads back to the tree. He strips off his clothes, grimacing as the motions pull at his wounds, and he carefully prods at his injuries. The spots where he was stung are swollen up like a bad bee sting, puffy and tender to the touch, tacky with drying blood from the knife wounds. Despite the inflammation, it doesn't look like there are any streaks under the skin to indicate blood poisoning, but it's starting to itch like crazy, and it hurts like _hell_ the moment he tries to scratch.

 

He slips into the river, gripping his shirt in one hand, and he can't stop a groan of relief as the water cools the burning sting on contact. He kneels down, scrubbing the blood out of his shirt with his bare hands, watching traces of red swirl into the current and disappear downstream.

 

_Hope this was all worth it._

 

He catches sight of movement under the surface, and a small dark shape flashes through the reddened water, a hint of silver reflecting off a fanned tail. Fish.

 

_Guess they just don't like tomato-berries._

 

His spirits boosted a little by the discovery, Kirk sloshes back out of the river long enough to lay out his shirt to dry and turn over the skewer, before he returns to the water. He sits down on the rocky bottom of the river, with only his head above the surface, and lets the current flow around and past him, carrying away the blood and dirt. And he knows he shouldn't, but he closes his eyes for a moment, giving in to the overwhelming need for _rest_.

 

He startles awake when water floods into his nose, and he jerks upright, gasping for air, the sun a few degrees lower in the sky than it was a second ago. _I fell asleep?_

 

He whirls around, frantically scanning the riverbank for any sign of predators, and a whole new worry strikes his heart when he catches sight of the small campfire, and the skewered bug still propped up over it. "Oh shit," he says out loud, surging out of the river to rescue the very well-done insect, its wings burnt away to nothing. Clear juices bubble out of the punctures in its shell, steaming on contact with the air, and even though he's sure that most people he knows would be repulsed by it, it smells absolutely _fantastic_ to him. Like an incredibly ugly crab.

 

"Fuck yes." His stomach growls, and he can hardly wait for the roasted insect to cool, waving the skewer through the air to let the wind carry away some of the heat before he begins to eat. It's unseasoned and overcooked, but it's meaty and greasy with fat, and he savors every bite, even crunching down on the brittle exoskeleton. The only part he doesn't eat is the stinger and the venom sac from its abdomen, flicking them into the river and watching the small splash of something nabbing it from below.

 

_So the fish here like bugs too. That's good to know._

 

If only the fishing gear wasn't back at his tree...

 

His wounds still itch, and there's a slow-burning ache in his muscles around the puffy insect stings, but the pain is worth every morsel, the meal settling pleasantly in his stomach. _Best I've eaten since the rations ran out._

 

* * *

 

Kirk spears another four stinger-bugs before the day's over, this time sticking close to the river so he has a quick escape from the swarm, and for his efforts, he's only stung two more times.

 

He roasts all four over the fire, but only eats one, saving the rest for later. His muscles are aching from the stress of the hunt, and the itchy swollen lumps throb painfully on his skin, but neither prevents him from climbing a safe height up the shelter tree when he returns 'home.' _Pretty sure I could climb all the way up here even if both my legs were broken, because_ fuck _staying down on the ground at night._

 

Keeping his medical supplies with the rest of the gear is stupid, he decides, as he injects himself with antihistamines from the emergency medkit. The itchiness fades as the drugs kick in, and he sighs a little in relief, left now only with the mild pain of inflamed tissue. It's bearable, though, so he doesn't waste a dose of painkiller, in case he needs it for something worse. But he does take a few minutes to run the compact dermal regenerator over the knife wounds, sealing them up.

 

Stinger-bugs don't taste as good when they aren't fresh off the fire, when hunger hasn't seasoned the meat for him, but it's still pretty damn good, all things considered. As the sun sets over Atalanta, he feasts on roast insect and his stash of leaves and carrot-nuts, and even the burning discomfort from the stings isn't quite enough to shake the sense of satisfaction that he feels at a mostly-successful hunt.

 

_Finally._


	8. Day Twenty

A dark column of smoke rises from the gravelly riverbank, dissipating gradually into the lilac sky of Atalanta. Three small silver fish slowly roast over the open flame, propped up on skewers made from green sticks, and nearby on some larger rocks, black fabric is laid out to dry, freshly scrubbed of dirt and blood but still stained from days of abuse, far more continual use than it was intended for. A survival pack sits even further away from the fire, half filled with nuts and berries, and one lone egg.

 

And on the flat boulder in the middle of the river, just downstream from the gently roaring waterfall, the planet's lone inhabitant stands, his body bare save for the undershorts concealing his modesty and the knife strapped to his wrist. He casts the fishing line back into the water, its hook baited with a small chunk of stinger-bug, and he doesn't have to wait very long before there's a tug on the line. He pulls it in, another small silver fish wriggling on the end, and he spears it on another green stick in preparation to put over the fire.

 

Much as he wishes he hadn't been here long enough to adjust, Kirk has nonetheless started settling into a sustainable routine. With no way to store more than a few days' worth of food, he has to forage or hunt fairly frequently, and he's learned the hard way that if he wants to avoid the wrath of the swarm, it's best to get up with the sun and spear the earliest risers before the rest of the stinger-bugs are up and around. He has one for breakfast, saves one for lunch, and keeps a third for use as fish bait. Then it's off to the river to bathe and rinse his clothes. The next few hours, he devotes to fishing and gathering plants, before returning to the shelter tree to catch a few hours of sleep before sunset.

 

Nights, of course, are still the one thing he can't do anything about.

 

He's still tired, still not getting nearly enough sleep, and what sleep he _does_ get is often haunted by nightmares. Sometimes the very tangible variety, prowling in circles around the base of his tree, sizing him up with way too many hungry eyes. But with a steady supply of food - food that's got protein and fat, most importantly - that horrible weakness that he remembers from Tarsus IV is slowly being banished back to the dark corners of his memories. And though he's accumulating an unfortunate collection of insect stings, their injection sites swollen and itchy, he's avoided any more serious injury thus far. Even the sun doesn't appear to be harsh enough to burn him, and it's hard to tell after only spending three weeks on the planet, but he thinks he might actually be getting a tan.

 

Except along his jawline, presumably, because his stubble has well and truly ventured into beard territory, and he doesn't want to try using his only knife to shave, especially without any soap or a mirror.

 

_I can almost hear Bones grumbling about infection risks already,_ he muses to himself as he wades out of the river, carrying his fresh-caught fish to replace the cooked ones over the fire. He puts on his pants and boots first, however, not in the mood to accidentally burn himself in sensitive spots. And as he works, he can't help but cast a hopeful glance towards his communicator, sitting silently next to the survival pack.

 

Today is his twentieth day on the surface of the planet. That means that up on the _Enterprise_ , it's been roughly an hour since the shuttle went down.

 

An hour. That's all.

 

It's still a bit of a mindfuck, if he's honest.

 

But an hour is a reasonable amount of time to expect his crew to figure it out, and while he's spent the last three weeks in irrational hope that Spock or somebody else might put the clues together in a dazzling leap of logic, that hope is on the precipice of being a _real_ hope, grounded in fact and reality, once he gets word that his crew have realized his predicament and are working towards his rescue. Or better yet, if a shuttle were to arrive today to pick him up, he certainly wouldn't complain.

 

But the communicator hasn't made a sound all day.

 

It hasn't for several days, actually.

 

But knowing that from the crew's perspective it's only been minutes since their last call, it hasn't discouraged him from delivering his regular check-ins anyway. The more signals he sends, the more likely they are to be noticed. And once the roasted fish are set aside to cool, with the freshly caught ones taking their places over the crackling flame, Kirk picks up his communicator and opens a channel to the ship for his midday report.

 

"Kirk to _Enterprise_. It's me again. I know, what a shocking and unexpected twist. If you guys wanna send a shuttle today, I've got lunch ready for everybody. It's not as nice as Bones' fish fry, but hey, I've got no breading. So it's not my fault."

 

"I'm not really in bad shape, all things considered. Doesn't mean I _want_ to stay here and I've probably got all kinds of vitamin deficiencies or something, but it's nice to know I'm not gonna starve while I'm waiting for you guys to come pick me up. Although on that note, if you want to pack me a lunch to send along with the rescue team, I have been _dying_ for a turkey club with extra bacon. It beats roast stinger-bug, hands down. And speaking of which, Bones, you'll probably be happy to know that I'm down a couple notches on my belt. The survival diet is doing wonders for my waistline."

 

He pauses for a moment, considering the situation. As upbeat as he sounds, he knows in his heart that if today really was the day, they would've had time to send him a message already. Even if they had to record it, speed it up, and transmit in one short burst. And given the amount of time it takes for a shuttle to depart the _Enterprise_ 's docking bay and reach atmosphere, such a message probably wouldn't come the same day, preceding any actual rescue by a day or more.

 

They'll still come for him eventually, he knows.

 

Just not today.

 

He lifts the communicator again, forcing cheer into his voice. If anyone ever does listen to this, he doesn't want them feeling guilty that they haven't come to get him yet. "I'm sure you guys are kicking ass, working on getting down here safe. Seriously though, that atmospheric transition is a total bitch to fly through, so if you've gotta delay to double-check the math so the rescue shuttle won't nosedive into the planet, _please_ , take the extra time. If anyone gets themselves killed trying to save little ol' me, I'll haunt you forever. _Be safe_. And come get me when you can. I'll check in again before nightfall. Kirk out."

 

He shuts the communicator with an audible snap, and his shoulders slump a little as he lets go of his false optimism, clipping it back onto his belt. There's no one here to see him pretend, so why bother?

 

As always, when he stops talking, the silence presses in, the sounds of nature taking over and reminding him that he is the only person on the entire planet. He sits next to the smoldering fire, listening to the sizzle of cooking fish, the dull thunder of the waterfall, the roaring cries of the howler-birds flitting by overhead. It's peaceful, almost serene, and the steady drone of the rushing water makes his eyelids heavy, the warm sun conspiring with the river to make him drowsy, reminding him of just how _long_ it's been since he had a real, proper rest.

 

He shouldn't sleep here.

 

But... there aren't any sign of predators nearby, not even the juvenile longsnout that tends to lie on the opposite riverbank and watch him fish, these past few days. It won't hurt to shut his eyes just for a minute... right?

 

Just for a minute...

 

Kirk draws his legs up to his chest and rests his forehead against his knees, the almost hypnotic rumble of endless water filling his ears.

 

He doesn't remember falling asleep.

 

* * *

 

He wakes abruptly to excited chirps and whistles, and a sharp pain in his arm, pointed teeth tearing at the skin and muscle underneath.

 

He jerks away, fumbling for the knife strapped to his wrist, and nearly staggers straight into the smoldering coals of his campfire as he leaps to his feet, cursing himself for being so stupid as to _actually nod off_ out in the open, no matter how safe things appeared at the moment.

 

Because it clearly fucking _wasn't_ , was it?

 

The entire pack of featherfiends is here. Some circling around him, hooting and calling in eager anticipation, others tearing into the fish he had worked so hard to catch, gobbling them up in a matter of moments. Three others snap at his legs, and at the blood trailing down his arm from where one of them tried to take a chunk out of him as he stupidly sat sleeping. Their scorpion-like tails wave menacingly above their backs at him, and he jerks to the side, reflexes sluggish, barely avoiding a strike from one.

 

He doesn't manage to dodge the other two.

 

Needle-like stingers sink into his knee and his forearm, and burning agony immediately flares throughout his muscles. He screams, the cry involuntarily tearing itself from his throat, and his leg collapses beneath him, nerveless, forcing him to one knee.

 

One featherfiend darts closer, snapping at him with vicious jaws, and he lashes out with the knife, catching it in the throat. It lets out a shocked whistle, cut off as soon as it began, and collapses to the graveled ground, thick blue blood spilling out in hot streams. The others hoot and recoil, surprised at the quick death of their fellow, but it doesn't deter them long.

 

They close in on him, striking again with their tails, and though he manages to deflect one with the knife, the other stinger buries itself in his wrist. His hand spasms, and to his horror, he can't grip the knife as it slips from his fingers, dangling uselessly from the cord that ties it to his arm.

 

The others are losing interest in his camp, all the fish gone, and they chirp loudly as their attention turns towards him.

 

_I can't win this._

 

He can't run, not with his leg dragging, paralyzed by the pain and the poison that he can feel burning through his veins. And he can't fight, not when he can't even hold a weapon. There's only one choice.

 

He forces himself to stand on the leg that still works, raising his good arm, and screams wordlessly at the pack of predators, making them hesitate as their prey suddenly becomes much bigger and louder. And before they can realize that it's little more than an act, a ploy to distract them from their attack, he hobbles backwards into the river.

 

The current isn't terribly strong at first, but it's enough, and he kicks with his one good leg, propelling himself further towards the center of the river. Angry chirps and hoots follow him, but the featherfiends don't follow him into the water, the entire pack running down the riverbank in parallel, trying to chase him without getting wet.

 

His head slips below the surface and he chokes, sputtering as water floods his nose and mouth, gasping for air. He kicks out blindly, pushing off from the riverbed enough to get his head above water, and gathers all his strength to roll over on his back, trying to float as the hastening current carries him downstream. The lilac sky above is starting to swirl and blur, vivid red and green swirls bursting overhead, smearing across his vision. Sparkles of light like stars flash past him, and the endless chorus of chirps and squeaks fade into one long whistle, becoming higher and higher in pitch until he can't hear it anymore.

 

And there's a roar, getting louder and louder by the moment, but he can't move, can't turn to see what it is, his body oddly light like a balloon, flying away when someone let go of the string.

 

He floats away, disconnected from everything, vanishing into nothing.

 

And he falls.


	9. Hour One

Spock listens to the casual banter being broadcasted over the open comm, watching the display on the _Enterprise_ 's main viewscreen. A tactical depiction of shuttlecraft _Cassini_ 's trajectory, updated in realtime, takes up the majority of the viewer. To the left, there is a scrolling update of the shuttle's sensors, both interior and exterior, and on the right, subdermal biosensors relay the vital signs of the captain and the scientists contained within the craft.

 

Everything is functioning within acceptable parameters. Captain Kirk's heart rate and blood pressure are increased slightly above the norm, but Kirk is what Doctor McCoy has often referred to as an "adrenaline junkie." A crude, if appropriate, turn of phrase. Such deviations in his vital signs are a typical occurrence, and therefore of little concern at this time.

 

The doctor, however, does not appear to agree. McCoy stands at the back of the bridge, near the command chair, with his arms folded across his chest. "Damn fool reckless captain," he mutters under his breath, his gaze riveted to the datastream at the right side of the viewscreen. "There's no reason for _him_ to be going on a dangerous mission like this."

 

"The captain is in the habit of undertaking such missions," Spock says, but does not turn around, so he may continue to monitor the shuttle's flyby of Atalanta. "He is within his right to do so. There is no regulation against it."

 

"Sure, and Jim won't ask his crew to do anything he's not willing to do himself. I'm well aware, Spock. Doesn't mean it's a smart move."

 

A strange flicker in the data from the shuttle's sensors catches Spock's eye, and he immediately devotes his attention to its analysis. It is as if the shuttle's activity has accelerated, somehow.

 

And it must be perceptible by the shuttle's crew as well, because Kirk's voice sounds concerned as he speaks over the open comm line. " _You'd better strap in. Looks like this might-_ "

 

"Captain?" Spock asks, but the comm abruptly cuts off with an extremely brief, high-pitched squeal.

 

"Oh my God," McCoy breathes in horror.

 

 _Cassini_ 's trajectory is no longer being updated. The line marking the shuttle's progress has taken an abrupt turn toward the planet's surface, drawing what appears to be a crash vector in the span of a heartbeat. Most of the sensor streams are dead, and those that remain active indicate a fire that is rapidly exceeding survivable temperatures. Such data lasts only moments before the datastream from the shuttle goes entirely blank, terminated at the source.

 

The life sign monitors hold similarly grave news.

 

Nearly the instant that audio contact was lost, the vital readings of Lieutenants Fischer and Stephens momentarily indicated unattainable pulse and respiratory rates before suddenly ceasing entirely. A flashing warning in bright red now declares them TERMINATED, and twin audio indicators wail in flatline.

 

But not the captain's.

 

Kirk's sinus rhythm is so rapid that it appears as one thick, solid line spanning the entire amplitude of his typical readings, as though his heart rate is several hundred times faster than normal. His respiration, likewise, has accelerated to physically impossible levels, but oddly, his blood pressure and internal temperature readings are relatively normal.

 

The sensors indicate that he is alive. But no human could realistically survive with these readings. Perhaps the sensors are in error... some unforeseen electromagnetic interference of a type not yet encountered. "Hail the captain," Spock orders immediately.

 

Uhura had been gaping at the viewscreen in just as much shock as the rest of the humans on the bridge, but upon receiving a direct order, she immediately turns to her workstation to carry out her duty. " _Enterprise_ to Captain Kirk," she transmits, and pauses, waiting for a response.

 

Silence.

 

" _Enterprise_ to Kirk, respond please." Again, nothing, and Uhura's voice subtly betrays her fear. "Captain, can you hear me?"

 

There is no reply.

 

But there is no logic in panic, and Spock turns to Chekov, who is manning the science station while Spock is in command. "Ensign, run a diagnostic. Ensure that our sensor readings are accurate."

 

"Aye, sir." The young human's voice is quiet with shock, but he did not earn his place on this crew through inaction, and immediately sets to work.

 

Proper sensor diagnostics take time, however. And there is little sense in remaining idle in the meantime. "Doctor McCoy, is there any condition of which you are aware that could cause these readings from a human?"

 

The doctor's professional composure is not so easily regained, as is typical for the man. It is several moments before McCoy speaks, and he does not bother to conceal his agitation and fear. "Are you serious? The human heart isn't remotely capable of beatin' that fast. Top heart rate ever recorded was still in the hundreds of beats per minute, not _tens of thousands_. Jim should be _dead_."

 

 _Perhaps he is._ But Spock does not give voice to this possibility. Not yet.

 

It is entirely possible that the captain's biosensors are malfunctioning due to the crash, or perhaps the electromagnetic interference that - as of yet - remains hypothetical only. And taking into account the near-instantaneous deaths of Fischer and Stephens, the indications of an abrupt and intense fire onboard _Cassini_ , and the unsurvivable rotation rate of the planet, it seems incredibly likely that whatever fate befell the shuttlecraft, the captain is surely deceased.

 

Spock's heart squeezes painfully in his side, an echo of the all-encompassing sorrow and fear that once gripped him as he witnessed Kirk in what they both believed to be his final moments, down in the warp core of the _Enterprise_. This time, there will be no last words, spoken with the consideration of looming death. There will be no farewells to the dying, no final measure of comfort to ease the passing of the man that Spock calls friend. He had thought it torture enough to be separated from Kirk by an inch of radiation-blocking glass, unable to touch, unable to meld, and to ease the captain's _katra_ to its final rest.

 

Now, separated by tens of thousands of kilometers, unable to even visually verify the captain's demise, Spock discovers that the unknown is a far worse agony. It is likely, but not assured, that Kirk is dead. He cannot help but hope that the captain's improbable luck holds out once more, yet the anticipation of learning his fate is tainted by the knowledge that survival is so unlikely.

 

It is several minutes before Chekov completes his diagnostic, and there is a puzzled grief in the ensign's demeanor as he reports. "All systems operating normally, commander. There is nothing wrong vith the _Enterprise_ sensors."

 

"Must be a problem with Jim's biosensor," McCoy mutters, but there is a devastated expression on his face as he speaks, clearly having come to the same conclusion as Spock. "False readings."

 

All the evidence points to a sudden, violent end.

 

But it does not make logical sense. Spock himself checked the math for the shuttle's approach vector, and the craft should have easily been able to withstand the atmospheric forces at that altitude. Likewise it seems quite improbable that the shuttle herself would be responsible for the crash, having undergone a level three safety inspection a mere eight days prior. Furthermore, _Cassini_ was not traveling at sufficient velocity for her descent to the planet's surface to be as rapid as sensors indicate.

 

It is certainly not impossible that Kirk is deceased, that his biosensors are transmitting incorrect readings. It is the simplest explanation.

 

But it is not _logical_.

 

And improbable or not, they _are_ receiving data that indicates the captain's continued survival.

 

"Lieutenant Uhura," Spock says, turning the chair so that he may make eye contact with her, "continue your attempts to hail the captain. Broadcast every five minutes. If the captain is injured or unconscious, he may be unable to respond immediately. Ensign Chekov, focus the ship's scanners on _Cassini_. I want verification that the shuttle has indeed impacted the planet's surface, and any additional data you can obtain with regards to its condition and disposition." He does not wait for acknowledgment of his orders, instead opening the comm channel to Engineering. "Spock to Scott. I require the maintenance and inspection records of shuttlecraft _Cassini_ from the past six months to be analyzed for any pre-existing issues that could result in sudden catastrophic failure to maintain altitude and course."

 

McCoy is staring at him, aghast. "You don't think Jim is dead? Spock, _no one_ could have survived a crash like that."

 

Spock looks back at him, unable to completely suppress his doubt from showing on his face. "Until his condition is confirmed, we cannot assume that Captain Kirk is deceased. If he is, then according to Starfleet regulation twenty-seven, the death of a senior officer must be fully investigated and logged in official record. If in the unlikely circumstance that the captain yet lives, he will require rescue and potentially medical attention. If that is the case, the cause of the shuttle's abrupt descent must be determined before another is sent to retrieve him, or any rescue attempt may also be at risk."

 

The doctor is staring at him as though he believes that Spock has gone mad, and there is an anguished hope in his eyes. "Spock, God help me, if you're just sayin' that to give us hope..."

 

"Do not misunderstand me, doctor," Spock says, giving the distraught man his full attention. "I do not understand how the captain's survival could be possible under these conditions. But until it is confirmed one way or the other, I will not proceed under a false assumption if doing so may result in causing his death by delaying any necessary medical attention that he may require."

 

It is the only logical path with which to proceed. If the captain truly is dead, then further investigation will cause him no harm or hardship. But if he lives still and they do not come to his aid, Kirk's survival may yet be at stake.

 

And as illogical as it is to hope, Kirk has an unlikely record of overcoming impossible odds. Perhaps... perhaps...

 

It will take time to collect the necessary data, one way or the other. But until he knows how to proceed without endangering more lives without need, Spock must wait.

 

And hope.

 

* * *

 

Approximately twenty-five minutes after _Cassini_ crashed upon the surface of Atalanta, Uhura turns towards the command chair. "Spock, there's still no word from the captain, but I think you need to take a look at this."

 

Spock's attention immediately shifts to her, and he vacates the chair, coming over to her workstation. "You have something of note?" he asks, looking over her shoulder at her data screen.

 

Uhura nods, and points to a graph that she has plotted. At semi-regular intervals, there is an extremely brief spike in data transmission, and while the pattern is not mechanically or mathematically precise, it does not appear to be random or naturally-occurring. "I've been receiving these signals almost constantly. I checked the logs; they started within seconds of loss of signal from _Cassini_."

 

Spock examines the data in more detail. Each pulse is mere deciseconds in length, spaced roughly thirteen seconds apart. Typically in groups of nine, then there is a fifty-seven second gap, before the pulses resume once more. "Is it possible that Captain Kirk is sending a message in some form of code?"

 

Uhura looks skeptical. "Maybe, but this isn't any code that _I_ know, and it hasn't altered in response to my attempts to contact him."

 

"Perhaps if his communicator was damaged in the impact, he is unable to send or receive audio. Theoretically, it is possible to rewire-"

 

"No, Spock," Uhura interrupts, looking up at him with wide eyes. "It's not just pings. It's audio."

 

That gives him pause. _Illogical._ "Yet each transmission can be measured in tenths of a second. No useful data could be transmitted verbally in such a short time."

 

It is a new piece of the puzzle, one that is as ill-fitting as the rest. But it must be considered alongside the rest of the evidence. "Attempt to trace the source of the signal, and begin an in-depth analysis. There must be some significance to the transmission of which we are unaware."

 

Uhura nods, and turns her attention back to her work.

 

Spock quickly becomes occupied with the analysis of _Cassini_ 's maintenance records, and though the engineering department has already searched the files for any pertinent data, he finds that he does not wish to be uninvolved in the process. Perhaps another set of eyes will see what Scott does not. He engrosses himself in the datapad, scrolling through file after file, examining every aspect of the craft's operation in a fruitless attempt to understand what might have caused such a sudden and catastrophic failure.

 

To understand why his friend and captain may be dead.

 

And he is only distracted from this pursuit some time later, when there is a sharp inhale from the communications station. "Lieutenant?" he asks, turning to face her once more.

 

"Spock," she says, and the shock in her voice draws attention from the entire bridge crew. "It's not a code. They're _compressed_ voice signals. Listen." Uhura's fingers dance across her console, and a hush falls over the bridge as the captain's voice broadcasts throughout the deck.

 

 _"Kirk to_ Enterprise _. Anyone there?"_ A short pause, presumably during which Kirk waited for a response and received none. _"Okay, so here's the facts so far._ Cassini _decided, all by herself, that doing donuts in atmosphere was such a great idea that she crashed. Observations from orbit calculated Atalanta's days at about three standard minutes, with an even split between day and night, and I just spent about thirteen hours in the dark. I'm guessing daylight's gonna last about the same. And the only signals I've gotten that might be from you guys was so ridiculously drawn-out that anyone saying that shit would've run out of breath long before they got it all out."_

 

Another pause, and things are starting to click into place in Spock's mind, a conclusion that simultaneously gives him hope and disturbs him to his core. Because if it is true, then they have lost a great deal of time already.

_"Last year, we ran into the Scalosians, who experienced hours over the course of just a few minutes, by our reckoning. That was biological, but... is it possible an entire planet could be hyper-accelerated? Some kind of, I dunno, fast time energy field or something._ Cassini _was making an angled pass at the upper atmosphere. If part of the shuttle went into the field and the rest didn't, that'd mean a speed differential of... fuck, a lot. Enough to spin_ Cassini _like a goddamn top and overwhelm the inertial dampeners. Twenty-six hours in three minutes... means my messages are just fucking blips and that's it. Shit. And yours would be stupidly long, like the ones I got yesterday."_

Another pause, and then the captain's voice shifts noticeably, conveying an optimism that may not be an accurate reflection of his actual emotions. _"I have the greatest confidence in you guys. You'll figure this out. But I'd really appreciate it if you'd haul ass on his one. Thanks. I'll keep doing regular check-ins. Uhura, you're the best there is at pattern recognition, even if it's just little hiccups. Don't you let me down, lieutenant. Kirk out."_

 

Silence falls across the bridge as playback ends, and Uhura turns to face them all. "That message clocks in at a minute and a half. The signal that delivered it to the _Enterprise_ was only a fifth of a second long. I had to slow it down five hundred and forty-four times."

 

"Good God," McCoy breathes in horror. "How long...?"

 

"That was the fourth 'blip' we received after the crash," Uhura says. "He sent this message just over fifty-nine minutes ago."

 

The math is incredibly simple, yet damning. "From the captain's perspective, as of this moment he has been stranded for twenty days," Spock says, and though he is hardly prone to great displays of emotion, the realization is like a stone in the pit of his stomach. "Lieutenant, please record the following message: Captain, we are aware of your predicament and are working to facilitate your return to the ship. Please stand by for further information. Request you acknowledge this message one hour after receiving it."

 

"My God, Spock, you couldn't have picked a wordier way to say it?" McCoy exclaims in disbelief. "Jim's down there spending _days_ in a matter of _minutes_!"

 

"Doctor, please contain your hysterics," Spock says, and though the truth of the captain's present situation is both startling and of great concern, the awful pressing weight of grief has lifted. Kirk still lives. "The more time you spend protesting, the longer the captain must wait for retrieval. Lieutenant Uhura, please accelerate the recording by the same factor you used to slow Captain Kirk's messages, and transmit."

 

Uhura has clearly anticipated this order, wasting no time in carrying it out. "Aye, transmitting now. We should have his response in the next few seconds."

 

Spock waits, feeling oddly impatient. Every moment that passes on the _Enterprise_ is far longer for the captain, and they do not know his current condition nor the extent of his access to water, food, and shelter. But he quiets his impatience with logic. Kirk has survived nearly three full weeks on the planet's surface, and shuttlecraft emergency supplies would not last that long. The captain is an incredibly resourceful man. His living situation must be at least somewhat sustainable for the time being.

 

The seconds pass. But Uhura only frowns as the moments tick by, reaching for her workstation to re-examine the frequency for activity. "He should have responded by now. He's been transmitting every two hours on his end like clockwork, during daylight hours."

 

McCoy appears to be on the verge of desperate panic. "Maybe he isn't receiving signals, only sending them...?"

 

"No, he stopped transmitting just before our message," Uhura says, pulling up the graph and projecting the data on the main viewscreen. Sure enough, there is a premature gap in the captain's signals, only five messages after the silent minute of the night cycle.

 

And the seconds continue to pass, with no acknowledgment from the captain.

 

No signal at all.


	10. Day Unknown

Darkness.

 

Drops of dancing white swirl around him, glowing and sparkling, tumbling endlessly with him, and the darkness bursts with bright colors, shades for which he has no name, and he inhales, the colors choking him, filling his throat and dragging him down into the cold dark depths.

 

Cold.

 

His bare hands are numb from scaling the rough surface left behind when the escape pod ripped through the ice. He tumbles down the cliff, pursued by the angry roaring monster at his heels, and his leg refuses to respond to his command to get up. Get up. _Run_.

 

But he's winded from the fall, from slamming into the ground at the bottom of the cliff, and he can do nothing but lie there and wheeze, gasping for breath as claws clatter across the ice, descending down the cliff face towards him. The slow, steady approach of death.

 

He shivers uncontrollably, naked in the snow, frozen in the ice, waiting for the agony of teeth sinking into his spine. The deep chill of the frozen ground burns his skin on contact, searing his flesh and melting the ice around him, steam rising from frost-reddened skin.

 

No... not cold... how could he be, when it's so hot? Meltwater and sweat drench him, soaking him through to the bone, boiling away in little bubbles that rise up all around him, swirling in hypnotic patterns as they disappear upward, vanishing into the star-studded blackness of the void, and he watches them go in a daze, his neck aching as he twists his head around, following the bubbles back to their source.

 

He looks down, and Vulcan burns below him.

 

He falls towards the red desert, heat baking his bones, and he tumbles without a parachute to catch him, the gaping pit below yawning wider and wider as he plummets straight down its throat, down to the center of the planet's core, where blackness waits to swallow him up. Flames burn at him, heat licking at exposed skin, and he cries out at the agony of it.

 

He's burning, dying, radiation ripping apart his cells as he drags himself to the glass door, the harsh grating tearing at his hands and knees, scraping away inflamed skin and leaving a bloody trail from the warp core. Jagged edges tear at him, and a cool breeze brings him no relief as he writhes in pain, warm wetness smearing against his palms as he pulls himself forward, an inch at a time.

 

A reptilian face stares down at him, and when it opens its narrow snout, it speaks in McCoy's voice, rough and thick. "I may throw up on you," it growls, a clawed foot planted in the center of his chest.

 

And oh god, all the spinning and whirling makes his stomach lurch, and he retches, knowing that it's the radiation and he's already dead dead dead no time can't stop have to save the ship save the crew.

 

He climbs, even when his strength fails and his hand no longer wants to grab the pipes, when his leg no longer wants to push off the conduit, when his leg is numb from the force of kicking the warp core housing back into place, the jolt still burning all the way up his back like aftershocks, his nerves aflame.

 

Alarms chirp dementedly around him, and the red alert fills the corridors with bright feathers, swirling in a dizzying cyclone of color that doesn't end, sharp quills jabbing into him all over, large dark shapes lurking behind the smokescreen, hissing. Circling.

 

Closing in.

 

He flees across the surface of Delta Vega, blinded by the blizzard, and a gray figure rises out of the fog in his path, hand raised, fingers split. "Physical reality is consistent with universal laws," the elderly ambassador intones in his younger counterpart's voice. "Where the laws do not operate, there is no reality."

 

The Vulcan raises his other hand, and fires a phaser at him.

 

Oh God, his shoulder _burns_ , and he cries out, clumsy fingers fumbling where the beam has scorched his flesh away, red red red blood seeping between slack fingers and pooling around his feet, the tide rising higher and higher, an endless gush of hot blood that roars in his ears and rises higher and higher until he can't keep his head above the surface, and shocking _cold_ floods his nose and throat, drowning him in it.

 

He vomits bloody froth, and clawed paws stab into his chest and back, rolling him onto his side, the warp core floor grate scraping against his cheek as sharp teeth burrow into his shoulder, digging deep into the phaser burn... no, a bite mark, dripping with red.

 

So much red.

 

Something cool and wet plops onto his burning skin, and the fire in his flesh sizzles and sputters. An odd whine fills his ears, like a phaser on overload, or a drawn-out plaintive cry of a dog.

 

Frank's mutt, Boomer, licks at his cheek and nudges him, but he can't move. Vegan choriomeningitis is an absolute bitch to recover from, even now, when he's out of the danger zone, and his whole spine aches, bursting in his head with a dazzling riot of color, painting agony across his eyes, and he cries silently, salty tracks streaking across hot flushed cheeks.

 

Boomer's tongue swipes at the tears, and a warm weight settles against his side as the dog joins him on the couch at the old farmhouse, resting at his side, a heavy head laid on the center of his chest as dark eyes watch him, the dog's tail slowly wagging hypnotically.

 

He manages to move his fingers, inching them over to twine them in the dog's soft fur, but he bumps against something hard and scaly instead, still warm and gently rising and falling with breath and life. Boomer looks at him and barks, and the sound is oddly high-pitched and far away, like it's coming at him down a tunnel.

 

Or across the void separating him from the _Vengeance_ , that great dark shape silhouetted against the moon, surrounded by a halo of debris, and Khan grabs him by the head and squeezes with both hands, pressing, cracking, until all he can see is red, fracturing across his eyes, into his brain.

 

His crew just stand there and watch in silence, unmoving, a portrait gallery in the flesh, staring down at him as he lies on a biobed, staring out through the open zipper of the stark white body bag, the wail of flatline in his ears.

 

"Help me," he gasps, trying to reach numbed fingers out towards them, but his arms are heavy, like he's trying to lift a starship on his own, and his voice is hollow in his own ears, dying out before it can carry past his lips.

 

"You're dead, Jim," McCoy intones flatly.

 

"We must accept the fact that Captain Kirk is no longer alive," Spock agrees, sitting in the command chair like a throne, a crown of stars on his head.

 

No... no, he's not dead. _I'm here. I'm here! Help me, please!_

 

But his reaching hand strikes glass, beating fruitlessly on the radiation barrier, sealing him in a clear coffin like Snow White as ice leeches into his veins, and he shivers violently, unable to stop. _Bones... Spock... please..._

 

"Poor Kirk," Uhura says, leaning on the back of the command chair, and she takes out her earpiece and throws it aside. "Didn't he know we weren't listening?"

 

Admiral Pike leans on his cane, a great bloody hole blasted through his chest, red gore against his white uniform, and the admiral stares at him with clouded blue eyes. "They've taken the _Enterprise_ away from you," he says in a voice like gravel, a low growl that rattles in his chest like a last breath.

 

He shivers, humiliation burning hotly in his face, and even the ice cubes in his drink do nothing to quench the fire burning inside of him, a vicious thirst that refuses to wane.

 

His mouth tastes of ash and death, and he falls to his knees in the decaying, ruined field, the earth dry and cracked and barren, the scent of rotting meat and death in his nose. He retches over and over, bringing up nothing but bitter bile, and the warm salt of blood coats his teeth.

 

He's surrounded by dirt, a mass grave, and the guards shovel it down on top of him, pinning him under its immense weight. _No... don't... please..._

 

He's still alive, can't they see that?

 

"Your continued existence represents a threat to the well-being of society."

 

Scrape.

 

Grit fills his mouth as he opens it to scream.

 

"Your lives mean slow death to the more valued members of the colony."

 

He claws at the edge of the grave, but it crumbles under his fingers, his leg refusing to push him upward out of the dirt.

 

"Therefore, I have no alternative but to sentence you to death."

 

The hands of the dead reach up to grab his legs, dragging him back down into the cold mass of bodies.

 

"Your execution is so ordered."

 

He screams and screams and screams and nobody comes.

 

_Maybe I_ am _dead._

 

He lets go, and falls into the dark.

 

He drifts on a sea of black, and beneath the raft keeping him afloat, a great leviathan circles, hissing, a dark shadow underneath the waves. A shadow stalking his nightmares, gleaming fangs reflecting faint starlight above, nearly invisible against the moonless night.

 

Little silver fish nibble painlessly at exposed fingers and toes, and he twitches away, sparking off a chorus of muddled light bursting in the sky, lighting up the sea, a flash of lightning before the thunder.

 

He can't move, his arm and leg trailing through icy waters, the current carrying him farther and farther from the tall ship on the horizon, her sails furled, an unmoving silver speck in the distance, gently bobbing on the waves.

 

_Enterprise_.

 

"I'm here," he whispers hoarsely, his throat parched from thirst, and a small trickle of fresh water touches his lips. He sucks in the cool liquid through cracked lips, mere drops to put out the raging wildfire within, and he cries as rough hands prod at gaping wounds in his arm, his shoulder, his knee.

 

Four black reptilian eyes look down at him, unblinking, and it speaks with the cold, unfeeling voice of Kodos the Executioner. "The infection must be excised," it tells him, and he wants to recoil, to get away from the monster of his childhood nightmares and all he can do is lie here, shivering, as sharp claws trace dotted lines on his leg, his shoulder, preparing him for surgery.

 

But it's not Kodos, it's McCoy who looms above him, holding a rusty hacksaw, and black eyes stare down at him above a red-spattered surgical mask. "Know why they used to call doctors 'sawbones,' Jimmy-boy?" he asks cheerfully, and hands hold him down as the wicked saw descends.

 

He thrashes, panic flooding a body so _exhausted_ that even a life-or-death struggle lends little to aid sluggish reflexes, aching muscles, trembling with fatigue.

 

"It's okay, Jimmy," his mother's voice calls out of the darkness, and the gentle scratch of her fingernails trail through his hair. "Let the doctors help you. You want to get better, don't you?"

 

But he can't. He's feral and wild and screaming, biting and snapping at anyone that gets close enough to lay a hand on him, starved and stick-thin, his hair shaggy and dirty and untamed, and he bares his teeth in terrified fury as he's held down and forcibly sedated, fuzziness creeping through his veins and leaving cool calm in its wake, and he falls into a drugged stupor, listening to his mother sob in the dark.

 

Boomer whines against his side, licking at his cheek. But he can only stare up at the dirt entombing him, a cold acceptance sinking deep into his stomach, the chill of the grave wrapped all around him.

 

_I'm dead._

 

He closes his eyes, and waits for the end. And an echo of a whisper chases him down down down into the abyss.

 

"...because you are my friend."


	11. Day Twenty-Five

He wakes in complete darkness, and for a long moment, he simply breathes, staring up into the black, confusion whirling through scattered memories of fire and ice and terror.

 

_Am I dead?_

 

He doesn't feel dead. His knee, his forearm, and his wrist all throb painfully, the skin feeling swollen and stretched tight, but there's something soothing and soft stuck to the parts that hurt the most, covered in something that rustles like paper when he touches it with the fingers on his good hand. His chest hurts, a deep ache like he's been coughing or puking hardcore for days, and he feels battered and bruised like he's been in a bar fight, muscles and bones complaining as he shifts his weight in the dark, trying to get a feel for his condition.

 

His skin feels oddly sticky, like he's carrying days' worth of sweat, and there's a sour smell in his nose like sickness and fever. He slides one hand up towards his head and presses the back of it against his forehead, unable to tell if his temperature is elevated, but his head is buzzing unpleasantly and his stomach is lurching a little as if he's on a boat in rough seas.

 

There's a strange tight feeling around his lower legs like his ankles are cuffed together, but his wrists are free and this doesn't feel like a prison cell, the space around him enclosed and tight like he's been wedged into a box, or a small crevice, and the scent of dirt fills his nose and grit crumbles against bare feet as he shifts his legs. _Wasn't I wearing boots?_

 

Dirt... all around him. Oh God, has he been buried alive?

 

He freezes when he realizes that the weight pressed up against his side is moving, in and out in a steady rhythm, accompanied by the gentle _whuff_ of breath. _Another victim in the grave with me?_ Tentatively questing fingertips trace out a pattern of scalloped shapes, smooth and warm to the touch.

 

His thoughts whirl in confusion, and he closes his eyes, making no difference in his ability to see his surroundings, and his head throbs in the dark, dull pulses of pain in his temples.

 

_What happened?_

 

Before he can remember, he drifts off into the dark.

 

* * *

 

He wakes again to light. Faint, filtering down from a great distance, and the warm weight against his side is gone, leaving one side unprotected.

 

He shifts, unable to make sense of what he's looking at, and he blinks to focus his eyes in the dim light. Dirt and twisted roots form a roof over his head, and there's a fine layer of grit sticking uncomfortably to his skin. Not a grave... a burrow?

 

For what?

 

_And why am I in it?_

 

Moving sets off all sorts of aches and pains, and he lifts his wounded arm a little to see the damage. The survival knife still dangles loosely from his wrist from the short length of paracord, but that's not what holds his attention. To his surprise and confusion, there are broad, spade-shaped leaves placed quite deliberately on his wrist and forearm. He carefully peels up the edge of the leaf on his wrist, and underneath is a green mash of some kind, some sort of vegetation that's been ground up or... chewed?

 

Whatever it is, it seems to be helping. The edges of the puncture wounds are reddened slightly with either infection or poison, swollen and warm to the touch, but the edges are beginning to heal together, and fevered fragments of nightmares give him the idea that he's been out of it a lot longer than he thought.

 

_Someone else did this._

 

His heart lurches painfully in his chest as he briefly, very briefly, hopes this means that he's been rescued.

 

But McCoy wouldn't use such primitive medicine if he had other options, and the doctor certainly wouldn't have buried him in a hole in the ground. But Kirk has been on this planet for weeks with no sign of civilization, no matter how primitive. _So who has been taking care of me?_

 

He carefully replaces the crude leaf bandage and cranes his neck back to find the source of the light. Natural daylight, coming down a six foot long tunnel, slightly angled to climb upward to the surface. An easy crawl, if he was healthy.

 

But his legs don't cooperate, and he realizes that his pants have been pushed down to his ankles, exposing his wounded knee, which is bandaged the same way as the stings on his arm. Slowly, carefully, he toes them off completely and rolls over onto his belly, and begins to drag himself toward the light. It's a glacial, agonizing process. His injured leg can only push weakly at the dirt, his wounded arm entirely useless at moving him forward, pain flaring in his shoulder every time he tries.

 

But he is nothing if not determined, and inch after inch, he propels himself out of the burrow.

 

He's underneath a large tree, only yards from the bank of the river, smaller and shallower than his usual fishing spot. The shore here is soft sand, not jagged gravel, and he licks cracked lips at the sight of so much water, flowing freely, sedately.

 

Still, he hasn't forgotten what happened upstream, and he waits for the chirping calls of the featherfiends to descend on him. But minutes pass and all he hears are howler-birds, screaming away in the trees.

 

_Good enough for me._

 

It's all downhill to the river, a gentle slope leading down to the edge of the water. He crawls across sun-warmed sand, just enough to get to the water lapping at the riverbank. He shouldn't drink unpurified water, he knows that, but he doesn't have his canteen or tablets, and if he _doesn't_ drink, he risks becoming dangerously dehydrated. _If I'm not already._ And he feels no shame in stretching out on his belly, lowering his head to drink straight from the river like an animal, knowing damn well that his weakened arm would never cooperate well enough to cup the water in his hands.

 

The water tastes cool and clean, and one sip at a time, he takes in as much as his belly will hold, quenching the dryness in his throat and restoring much-needed energy to his body.

 

He drinks his fill and rolls onto his back, the ache in his head easing up while new pains make themselves known elsewhere. Cautiously, carefully, he sits up and takes stock of his condition.

 

Besides the leaf-covered stings and the deep bite mark near his shoulder, he's bruised in a dozen different places, some still broad and dark while the smaller ones are already an ugly blue-green. His hands, too, are scratched and scraped like they've been dragged over sandpaper... or gravel. But there are no broken bones that he can feel, just a multitude of cuts and bruises and scrapes, like he went through an old-fashioned tumble drier along with a whole bunch of rocks. He doesn't remember getting any of them, though he can remember flashes of pain in the haze that's gripped him since the attack.

 

However long that's been.

 

Long enough for some of the bruises to change color as they heal, so several days, at least. Which means that whoever has been caring for him probably saved his life. A feverish, unconscious human would be easy prey for any number of predators here, and he shivers involuntarily at the thought of being found like that by a Fucking Nightmare.

 

He startles from his thoughts at a barking cry, and the world spins dizzily as his head whips around to see the source. The young longsnout approaches, its second set of forepaws clutching something against its belly, and its long whip of a tail flicks from side to side, just like a dog's. It slows as it notices his fear at its abrupt appearance, and makes a soothing rumbling noise in its long throat, slinking closer with its belly close to the ground. Not a hunting posture. Submissive, maybe?

 

Either way, if its intentions _are_ hostile, he's in no shape to run or put up any kind of decent fight. He doesn't even try to get the knife into his bad hand, knowing he can't grip it securely enough for it to be helpful.

 

But as the creature comes within touching distance and sits back on its rear haunches, the prizes in its foreclaws is revealed to be his Starfleet-issue boots, stuffed to the ankles with greenery. Including the same type of spade-shaped leaves that are plastered over his sting wounds.

 

Realization hits him like a speeding shuttlecraft. "It was you," he croaks out in utter surprise. He'd known the longsnouts were smart, but he'd figured they were on par with dolphins or elephants. But even though the boots aren't anything the longsnout made, it's intelligent enough - and creative enough - to see another use for a tool at its disposal, something it was never shown how to do. Combined with its use of local medicine... the longsnouts are _sapient_. They have to be. Which means that officially, he's made first contact with a previously unknown species.

 

A _primitive_ alien species.

 

Which means that he's already violated the Prime Directive just by _being_ here, never mind letting the natives watch his use of advanced tools.

 

Oops.

 

It's so absurd that he has to fight the sudden urge to laugh hysterically, imagining Starfleet Command's reaction to all this, if he ever makes it back to report in, anyway. _I wonder if there's an exception for extenuating circumstances._

 

Either way, it's a bit funny to realize that this longsnout's first impression of alien life is a scruffy, unkempt Terran who has spent a not-insignificant amount of time naked - or nearly naked, as he is now - in front of it.

 

_Fair's fair, I guess. They're all naked too._

 

Maybe the longsnout can smell the change in his mood, because it makes an encouraging _whuff_ at him and dips its tail in the river, flicking it in his direction and showering him with droplets of water. And just to make sure its intended message is understood, it nudges him with a gentle tap of the snout, not quite enough to send him toppling over, but definitely urging him in the direction of the water.

 

"Yeah, okay, I get it," he says, giving it a weak, tired grin. "The human needs a bath. It's your fault I'm covered in dirt, you know."

 

He's more grateful than ever that the river is sandy here, a gradual slope into shallower water, and he eases himself into the gentle current, unable to stop a groan from leaving him. His battered body aches from the movement, but cool water against inflamed tissue and tender bruises helps soothe away the hurt. For several moments, he is content to simply sit still, soaking in water that reaches up to the middle of his chest, both legs stretched out in front of him. Just getting rid of the awful tackiness of dried sweat does wonders for making him feel more human.

 

But he won't get truly clean just sitting here, so he scoops up a small fistful of sand in his good hand, scrubbing it gently against his skin to wash away days of dirt and grime, and he carefully peels off the leaf dressings, hissing a little as the wounds beneath throb in complaint. He takes far more care in cleaning the puncture wounds, foregoing the sand scrub and using only his fingertips to massage the filth away from tender flesh.

 

It is beyond weird to be sitting in a river in the middle of fucking nowhere, rinsing the gross oily buildup from his hair and God-knows-what out of his scruffy beard while a giant eight-legged tiger-lizard thing sits behind him and chews on an entire bootful of leaves. But awkward or not, it is beyond great to have real company again, even if it's someone who can't understand a word he says. And when he's finally as clean as he's gonna get and tries to limp out of the water, the longsnout immediately comes to his side, letting him brace himself against its warm scaly back, helping him move to a sunny spot where he can stretch out to dry off.

 

Without knowing which direction is north, he can't tell if it's late morning or early afternoon, but the sunlight is warm and unobstructed by clouds, and it doesn't take long for the river water to evaporate from his skin.

 

A quiet bark gets his attention, and the longsnout approaches with green gloppy goop cupped in one upturned paw, and a clawful of spade-leaves in another. "Oh, yeah," he says, gingerly repositioning himself so that the throbbing wounds can be properly treated.

 

The chewed-up glop burns momentarily on contact, but then a deep soothing warmth takes its place rapidly, leeching heat from the stings, and his hiss of discomfort swiftly transitions into a sigh of relief. The longsnout croons at him, covering the goop with a leaf, the edges sticking slightly to his skin and holding the poultice in place. It repeats the process with the other stings, and sniffs at the scabbed-over bite mark on his upper arm, apparently satisfied with how well it's healing, since it leaves this one uncovered.

 

"Thanks," Kirk says, even though he knows the longsnout won't understand him. _Maybe this is payback for saving its life... if so, I definitely got one hell of a bargain outta this arrangement._

 

* * *

 

It doesn't take very long for him to realize that even though he's feeling better, he is _far_ from healed.

 

He falls asleep more than once, jolting awake in a panic that he's going to be mobbed by featherfiends, his fear only eased when he catches sight of the longsnout standing watch over him or feels that comfortable warmth pressed up against his side. The sun slowly tracks across the sky with each short stretch of consciousness, until he's nudged awake in the evening, and clawed paws push something scaly and slimy into his hand.

 

The fish is freshly caught, still dripping with water from the river, but a surgically-precise bite through the head means it won't be flopping around ever again. He isn't really hungry, his appetite suppressed by the lingering weakness of fever and the featherfiends' poison, but he knows better than to pass up a meal.

 

And since he's not in any condition to make a fire, that means it's sashimi for dinner tonight.

 

Fine. If he was going to get parasites from the river, he's already gulped down enough unpurified water that a little raw fish won't make much difference anyway.

 

He bites into the fish, his stomach rumbling in that slightly uncomfortable way where it's impossible to tell if it's from hunger or nausea, and he takes care to chew slowly, picking around the tiny bones with his teeth. The last thing he wants to do is shock his system and puke up the only thing he's had to eat in days. Whether or not he's hungry doesn't really matter. He can't afford to pass up any amount of nutrients and calories, especially not now that his body needs to heal.

 

He only manages to eat two fish before his uneasy stomach refuses any more, and the juvenile longsnout - _I have got to give it a name_ \- snaps up the rest, devouring them whole, bones and all. Rumbling in its throat, the creature nudges him with its head, encouraging him back up the slight incline towards the burrow underneath the tree.

 

Kirk isn't exactly eager to spend another night down on the ground, now that he knows what comes out to hunt at night. But there must be _some_ level of safety in it, because apparently he's done just that for the last few days without incident, and the longsnout is insistent.

 

"All right, all right," he says, using his companion as a crutch again, hobbling back to the burrow. It's a lot easier getting in than coming out, and he watches as the longsnout carefully backs in alongside him, dragging a tangle of branches in its teeth to cover the entrance.

 

"Sneaky," he murmurs, and there's an answering _whuff_ from the longsnout as it settles lengthwise at his side.

 

It's dark and cramped, and even knowing that Fucking Nightmares are too big to follow them down here is small comfort to his nerves. But the gentle warmth, the soft rise and fall of another living being's sides as it breathes, someone that actually _responds_ when he speaks to it... it's the best place he's found to sleep since the crash. And even his aching, battered body gives him little trouble in drifting off to sleep.


	12. Day Twenty-Six

He wakes before dawn, and it takes him a moment to remember where he is, why his body aches, why the warm scaly wall at his side is breathing gently in the dark. Outside, he can hear the typical calls of nocturnal creatures going about their business, and even though a shiver goes up his spine at the reminder that he's on ground level at _night_ , the entrance of the burrow seems undisturbed.

 

He doesn't particularly want to go back to sleep, but there's got to be hours left before dawn, and it isn't remotely safe to leave the burrow before sunrise. And since he hasn't slept through the whole night for weeks, his body has its own ideas about how he should be spending his time.

 

So he dozes lightly, not quite asleep, and outside, the sky slowly begins to brighten, welcoming the coming of the day.

 

He finally rouses properly when the warm scaly presence at his side moves, slipping past him to poke its nose out of the burrow, wary of any lurking danger. It warbles out a cry, a strange _ruu-ruu-ruu_ that must be some kind of all-clear, because it leisurely ambles out of the burrow and down the slope, in the direction of the river.

 

That's a good enough endorsement for him.

 

But before he begins the slow, tiring task of crawling out himself, he grabs his filthy pants from where they ended up in the bottom of the burrow. He hasn't even realized just how tense he was until he feels the reassuring extra weight of his belt, still attached to the belt loops of his pants, and the communicator clipped to it. Right where he left it. The relief is palpable, and he closes his eyes for a moment, letting out a shaky sigh.

 

_Now I just hope it still works._

 

He drapes the dirty fabric over his wounded arm, since it'll be useless for climbing out anyway. The crawl is a little easier today, his body a little stronger despite the lingering weakness of his injuries. But he has a more pressing need than food or water, or even checking in with a ship that hasn't found a way to answer him back yet. Thirteen hours stuck in a hole in ground listening to river noises, after drinking a ton of water, has inevitable biological consequences, and he limps away from the burrow to water the bushes.

 

His scaly friend gives him a brief glance, and it's hard to tell on such an alien face, but Kirk thinks it looks pleased to see him up and around. If hobbling around on a half-dead leg counts as "up and around" anyway. And by the time he's done taking care of business, the longsnout has come close enough to sniff at the leaf-covered stings, making an inquisitive noise in its throat.

 

"Okay, doc, let's check out your handiwork," Kirk agrees, and he eases himself to a sitting position on the ground, so they both can reach the bandages. He carefully peels off the leaf on his wrist, gently scraping away the goopy gunk to examine the sting. The swelling has gone down since yesterday, and the skin is a little cooler to the touch, the angry red of infection around the edges fading into a healthier healing pink.

 

_Well I'll be damned._

 

His forearm and knee are about the same, and his scaly companion is pleased too, sniffing at the wounds and giving a satisfied _whuff_. And rather than trek off into the woods to find another batch of leaves to chew, it retrieves his boots and places them on the ground, next to where he dropped his dirty pants.

 

"No more leaves, huh?" he says, smiling a little. "Smart thinking, by the way, using them to carry stuff." Even though the young alien can't possibly understand him, it seems wrong not to talk to it, letting his tone of voice carry the message, if not the words themselves. "Thanks."

 

His new friend rumbles in its throat, and gently nudges him with its head, before wading into the shallows of the river, focused on something beneath the surface of the water. Its posture reminds Kirk of a fishing cat, forepaws poised to strike whenever the little silver fish swim close enough.

 

It's kind of nice to have someone else worrying about getting breakfast for once.

 

And it's fantastic to have company, not just for his own emotional comfort. There's safety in numbers, and while the featherfiends clearly feel bold enough to attack a lone juvenile longsnout out on its own, having a human for backup might be enough to make them think twice, at least.

 

Not that he's much of a threat like this. But they don't have to know that.

 

Feeling more relaxed than he has in a _long_ time, but still staying wary of his surroundings, he takes the communicator off the belt and flips it open, the motion a little awkward since he has to use his left hand. The familiar chirp of an open channel is music to his ears, and he exhales in a sigh of relief. _Thank God that Starfleet makes these things so tough._

 

"Kirk to _Enterprise_ ," he says, and doesn't wait for a reply, knowing by now that he's not going to get one. "I, uh, think I missed a few check-ins. I don't actually even know what day it is. My wrist chrono's back at the tree, and I'm... not. Long story short, I let my guard down and those feathery bastards got me with some kind of... I don't know if it was just a paralytic or if it was actually hallucinogenic, because I saw..."

 

He doesn't really want to talk about what little he remembers of the days after the attack. It doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense, for starters, and if by some chance someone ever _does_ hear this, he's not sure he wants the whole crew to know what kind of fucked up shit his brain dragged up to haunt him. So he stops himself mid-sentence, steering back on topic. "Well anyway. I don't remember much from the past few days. My scaly little friend must've pulled me out of the river, though, and... surprise, turns out the longsnouts are smart enough to use tools and medicine. I have no doubt whatsoever that I'd be dead right now if my buddy Leo hadn't treated and protected me."

 

The name slips out without thinking about it, and he grins a little as he imagines the look on McCoy's face when he hears that Kirk has named a giant lizard alien after him. But honestly, what else would he call a medic who communicates mostly through barks and grumbling noises? Especially one that is now responsible for saving his ass from certain death.

 

It seems a little silly to give a complete rundown of his injuries when there's no doctor to consult with, no way to get medical advice in any kind of timely manner, even if they _were_ listening right now. Chances are good he'll be well on his way to healing up on his own by the time anyone'll get back to him. But he's come to view these check-ins as a kind of surrogate captain's log, hopefully something that is being recorded by the _Enterprise_ computer, something he can enter in as official logs later without having to worry about forgetting details or whatnot.

 

And besides... McCoy is probably going absolutely batshit up there on the ship, if they listen enough to learn that he's been hurt. Or if his lapse in transmissions was noticed. "Bones, before you freak out, I'm _fine_. Or as fine as I can be anyway. The infection's pretty much gone, thanks to Leo. I have... three puncture wounds from stingers the size of my knife. One on the back of my right wrist, one on the outside of the same forearm, and one on the side of my left knee, just beside and below the kneecap. The little bastards also tried to bite a chunk out of my right shoulder. That's really the worst of it. I'm superficially banged up from whatever I hit on my way downriver, but my main problem is general muscle weakness where I got stung."

 

He's interrupted in his transmission as the longsnout pads over, clutching a few fish in its foremost set of paws, offering them to him with a _whuff_. Kirk smiles at it and sets the communicator down on the ground in front of him, so he can use his good hand to accept the generous gift of food. "Hey, thanks. You wanna say hello to the folks back home?"

 

The alien blinks its four eyes at him, and lets out a quiet bark, ambling back to the river to get more fish. Hopefully for itself. It deserves it, after how much work it's done to keep his ass alive.

 

"That was Leo," Kirk explains to the communicator. "Bringing me breakfast. My fishing stuff is all upriver somewhere with the rest of... how far away am I, anyway?"

 

It's not like he can ask the longsnout.

 

Shit. He shakes his head, a bit annoyed at how much his focus is wandering. _Guess I can't expect to be a hundred percent so soon._ "I'm in no shape to walk anywhere yet. My leg's too weak for that, and my arm isn't doing great at letting me hold stuff either. So the plan for right now is to rest up as much as I can, try to regain my strength, so I can get back to camp. My friend here seems willing to hang around and help. It's nice not to be alone anymore."

 

His voice almost breaks, and he closes his eyes for a moment, trying to regain his composure before he loses it completely. "Anyway... breakfast is getting cold, so I'll check in again in a bit. I've been napping a lot so it might not be two hours. Sorry if I freaked you guys out when I went quiet. Kirk out."

 

* * *

 

It's not like this is the first time Kirk's had to recover from being injured in the line of duty. It is, however, the first time he's been stranded in hostile territory with no real access to proper medical attention, and even with his longsnout friend around to help ward off predators, he still feels vulnerable and exposed.

 

Of course, part of that might be because he doesn't have a shirt anymore.

 

He's not really sure what to do for recuperating from being poisoned, especially not when it seems to have fucked up his muscles. But while he doesn't want to overstress his healing body, it also seems like a good idea to gently exercise the affected limbs to try to build their strength back up, so he periodically stretches out his arm, curling his hand into a fist, and every so often he gets to his feet and limps a short distance along the river.

 

Perhaps the one saving grace is that it doesn't hurt all that much. It's not painless, of course; he still feels like he's been run over by a shuttle, but he's used to that from years and years of stopping fists with his face. At least he _can_ hobble around without wanting to scream in agony, even when resting his full weight on his wounded leg. But his reflexes are slowed, and his affected joints don't always follow his commands the way he wants, his knee sometimes buckling under the mild strain of walking, his wrist sometimes reluctant to bend the way he tries to move it.

 

_Wonder if I can make some kind of brace..._

 

But just the thought of venturing into the forest to find suitable materials is exhausting, so he spends yet another day sticking close to the riverbank, napping in the sun and nibbling at the fish that Leo drops on his chest periodically.

 

It'd be almost peaceful, if he didn't know better.

 

"Tomorrow," he mumbles to himself, lying on his back in the sand, staring up at the glinting speck of the _Enterprise_ far above, a guiding star in an alien sky. Tomorrow, he'll start looking for a way to hike back upriver, back to all his gear. And his medical supplies.

 

Though he still has no idea how he'll be able to climb up to his camp in the tree without full use of his limbs. But he has a little time before he has to worry about that.

 

_Tomorrow._


	13. Day Twenty-Eight

It takes him an entire day to find suitable materials to make a splint. The vegetation here is a little different than the area of forest he's used to, with far fewer trailing vines to use for rope, and he can't venture too far from the burrow in his search for fear he won't be physically able to make it back by nightfall. As it is, he can only limp along for a few minutes at a time before he has to stop and rest.

 

Leo seems fairly curious about what he's doing, as well, trailing along and watching him poke around the underbrush, and occasionally letting him brace himself against its back when his bad leg gives out on him without warning. It's reluctant to leave his side, and to be perfectly honest, he doesn't mind one bit. Being caught alone is bad enough, but a wounded animal is prime seasoning for a meal to a predator, and God knows there are enough of those around.

 

In the end, he resigns himself to sacrificing his pants from the knees down, cutting the fabric lengthwise with the knife. He chooses two sturdy, straight branches and uses the strips to lash them on either side of his leg, securing the splint above and below the knee to keep it from bending.

 

It's pretty uncomfortable, walking with such a stiff-legged gait, and he has to experiment with a few different ways to tie it on, so it's secure enough without cutting off circulation. And he quickly learns that if he loses his balance and falls, it's an absolute bitch to get upright again when he can't bend his knee.

 

The young longsnout lets out a _hraa-hraa_ noise when he falls for the third time, and though it's hard to tell for sure, it sounds a hell of a lot like a laugh. "Hey man, I've only got two legs," Kirk says to it, using its back to get back to his feet again. "You've got eight. That's clearly cheating."

 

Four black eyes blink at him innocently, but it doesn't move away until he's relatively steady on his feet again, letting him take his time getting his balance back.

 

_Maybe I should find a hiking stick or something... I can't be using Leo as a crutch the whole way back._

 

But before he can begin looking, the communicator on his belt chirps with an incoming signal, the first time he's heard the sound in quite some time. He flips it open, fully expecting to hear the same drawn-out droning noise that he's heard so many times already, the message so slow it's incoherent on his end.

 

But that's not what he hears, and he swears his heart actually stops for a moment from the shock.

 

Instead of nonsense noise, Spock's very recognizable voice emits from the speaker, the cadence only slightly slower than it probably should be, the words clear and articulate. " _Captain, we are aware of your predicament and are working to facilitate your return to the ship. Please stand by for further information. Request you acknowledge this message one hour after receiving it._ "

 

"Oh my God!" The words are out of his mouth before it truly sinks in. His crew know what's happened to him. _They know!_ The news he's been waiting for _weeks_ to hear has finally arrived! And while it's not any kind of watertight rescue plan or even a promise of what day they'll be coming to get him, it's the first thing he's heard from the ship since the crash.

 

"I can't wait an hour; are you fucking kidding me?"

 

He knows why they want him to wait, of course. Sending a signal so close to their transmission has an easier chance of getting lost in the noise, and they need to know that he's heard them properly. Still, waiting a whole goddamn _hour_ is torture.

 

And then once he _is_ able to send his reply, they're going to need time to slow it down and listen, so he probably won't hear another word from them until at least tomorrow, if not the day after.

 

But still. Progress!

 

He's never been so happy to hear another person's voice in his life.

 

Leo is looking at him, head cocked to the side, and he grins back at it. "My friends are coming to get me," he says, unable to keep the smile off his face. "I don't have a clue _when_ , but they'll come for me. I knew they would."

 

The longsnout doesn't have any idea why he's happy, but it barks, sharing in his unknown joy as he laughs, a massive weight lifting off his shoulders.

 

Finally, _finally_ , he's been heard.

 

* * *

 

He has to take a guess at how long it's been since he received the transmission from the _Enterprise_ , and he occupies part of his time choosing the best branch he can find to use to keep his balance on the hike back upriver. It's too late in the day to set out, however, as he has no idea how far he'll have to walk, and it's already past midday. _Better to conserve my strength anyway._

 

So he returns to the riverbank, shaping another branch into a spear like the first one he made. It's hard, with his only reliable hand being his off-hand, but his injured right is working well enough to help steady the branch as he works, scraping away at the wood until he has three sharp points at the end. It's not as deadly as he'd like, but any weapon is better than nothing, and he doesn't have the materials he'd need to make another bow and enough arrows to be worth the effort. And who knows, if he can balance well enough to try, maybe he can give Leo a hand in catching dinner on the way back.

 

Not that the longsnout has seemed to mind being the breadwinner in this relationship.

 

He squints up at the sun, trying to judge how far it's moved since he got the call from the _Enterprise_. Close enough. He drops the spear, snatching up his communicator, and he can hardly wait for the chirp of the channel opening before he starts speaking. "Kirk to _Enterprise_ , oh my _god_ it is so great to hear your voice Spock! I don't know what took you guys so long but to be perfectly honest, I don't care right now. You can tell me all about it when I get back."

 

What else to say? He has to make the message long enough to register, long enough that it'll be noticeable even to Uhura's excellent ears. "Guess this is close enough to my regular check-in, so here's the deal. My leg's not doing much better but I've got a brace worked out, so tomorrow I'll be heading upstream. My medical supplies are back at the tree, and they're not great, but I could use the dermal regenerator and probably the antibiotics. The last thing I need right now is to get another infection. Bones, if you wanna pass along any advice on what else I should be doing to take care of myself, for once I want to hear it. And when I do make it back, I don't want a lecture about me getting myself hurt again. Seriously, the emergency supplies Starfleet puts on shuttles are _not_ adequate, medical and otherwise. Meeting minimum standards isn't good enough for the _Enterprise_."

 

He pauses, and reflects on that, raising his eyebrows a little. "Though to be fair, I don't even have any of that right now, either. I've got my communicator and a knife, and about a foot of paracord, and that's all. I don't even have a shirt. But a phaser would've made a hell of a lot of difference in defending myself when I got jumped by those fluffy assholes in the first place, believe me."

 

Kirk shakes his head, smiling slightly as he reminds himself that he's not talking into a void, that his words are being _heard_ , that this message is probably going to be the next thing his crew hears from him. And even if he won't hear back from them for a day or two at least, it does his heart so much good to know that an answer _is_ coming, slowly but surely. "We're gonna make some changes once this is all over. And hey, when you get that approach vector figured and send in the rescue shuttle, have 'em bring along a sandwich or two for me, would you? And coffee. Good God, I miss coffee so much. I haven't had any in like a month. A change of clothes would be nice, too."

 

That should be long enough to get noticed, but now that he knows this message will have an audience, he's reluctant to sign off. But, he reminds himself, the longer he talks, the longer it'll take for them to listen to the message, and the longer it'll take for rescue to come. Probably. So with great reluctance, he closes his eyes for a moment, and says, "Get back to me as soon as you can, all right? Kirk out."

 

Leo has apparently been waiting for him to hang up, because almost the moment his communicator snaps shut, there's a familiar bark and a nudge of a snout against his shoulder. But rather than handing over yet another fish, those dexterous forepaws carefully hand over a pair of howler-bird eggs.

 

He can't help but be impressed. He hasn't seen any of the longsnouts eat them, which either means that he just hasn't been lucky enough to catch them at it, or they don't eat them at all. And Leo hasn't saved any for itself, but it knows that _he_ eats them, because it's watched him do it.

 

Kirk smiles warmly at his alien friend. "You're the best, Leo. Thanks a lot."

 

The alien gently bumps its head against his, _whuff_ ing into his hair affectionately. On the one hand, it's a little strange that it's become so friendly with him so quickly. But it also watched him for quite some time before the attack, and who knows how many days it looked after him when he was out of his mind from poison and fever? And he _did_ save its life.

 

So he just leans his head against Leo's for a moment, smiling slightly. "You know, you're a lot less grumpy than the guy I named you after. He's gonna be jealous." The longsnout, of course, doesn't reply, just trots away towards the river to fish for its supper.

 

His appetite still isn't quite what it once was, but it's coming back, a little at a time. Raw eggs still aren't his favorite or anything, but he downs the contents of the shells like a champ, throwing it back as if he was doing shots so he doesn't have to taste it for long.

 

"You know, it's funny," he says out loud to Leo, who glances in his direction before peering back into the water, swiping out with one paw, pinning a wriggling fish in its claws. "People back on Earth used to think raw eggs were better for you than cooked ones, until they figured out bacteria were a thing. They thought it'd make you stronger, and here I am, centuries later, and though I'd love to even just make them into a omelet or something, I've got nothing to cook it on. And I _still_ need it to get my strength back up. If Bones knew what I was eating down here, he'd throw a fit."

 

The longsnout comes up with another fish, and brings it over to him, once Leo notices the eggs are gone. "Yeah, these too," he says, but accepts the offered food with a grateful nod. "I honestly don't know how to thank you for all this. You didn't have to do anything for me, but I'm not complaining, don't get me wrong. Tell you what... once I get back to my gear, I'll do the fishing for a couple days, okay? It's only fair."

 

Leo, of course, doesn't answer him in words, nor does it understand what he's saying. But the young alien sits down on its haunches at his side, gnawing away at its own supper. And when Kirk rests a hand on that warm scaly back, the longsnout rumbles in its throat, almost a purr of satisfaction in its voice.


	14. Days Twenty-Nine and Thirty

Trying to hike through slightly hilly terrain when you've got a bum leg is a hell of a lot harder than he thought it would be.

 

Not that he thought it would be _easy_ , of course. Even with the makeshift brace keeping his knee from buckling underneath him and a hiking stick to help keep his balance, he can only limp about a half mile at a time before he has to stop and rest. But he also only covers a disheartening eight miles on the first day, and he can't keep going until nightfall because of the pressing need for shelter.

 

Not that he'd be able to if he wanted, anyway.

 

About an hour before sunset, Leo starts making harsh barking sounds until he stops walking, and the longsnout sets to digging a burrow for the night, both sets of forepaws working in tandem to shovel massive amounts of dirt out from underneath cage-like tree roots. It's actually fascinating to watch it at work, loosening the tightly packed earth with long claws, then closing its toes to create perfectly-shaped scoops, pushing the dirt past its body and out of the quickly-forming tunnel beneath the ground, its rearmost set of feet clearing it out the rest of the way.

 

It's way faster than Kirk would ever be able to accomplish with a shovel, even if he had the use of both hands at the moment. It's impressive to watch, and he feels like such a freeloader as he eases himself to the ground so he can start unlashing the brace from his leg. "You're a creature of many talents, Leo," he says out loud as he works, though the longsnout doesn't pause from its task to listen, more focused on completing their shelter before dusk. "You fish, you heal, you dig... you're starting to make me look bad. Is there anything you _don't_ do?"

 

Leo makes a rumbling noise and disappears further into the earth, its whiplike tail slowly lashing side to side, the only part of it sticking out above the ground. And the sky is just starting to turn dark purple when his scaly friend pads back out of the burrow and calls out a _ruu-ruu-ruu_ of all-clear.

 

Even after a few days of sleeping underground, Kirk is still a little unnerved by it. And though he's tired out by a long day of hobbling along the river, he lies awake for a long time, listening to the sounds of the night, and the soft breathing of the longsnout beside him. _I wonder how long I'll have to do this._

 

It still makes him smile a little to remember how good it was to hear Spock's voice after so long of only hearing his own. And he still finds comfort and assurance in the knowledge that his crew are working on a plan to save him and get him back aboard the _Enterprise_. But with such a massive time difference between them, there's no telling how long that'll take. Days... weeks? How long has it been already?

 

Dirt scrapes next to him, and a heavy head nudges his chest, bumping against his chin. A quiet rumble resonates through the contact, and he can't help a small smile, reaching up with his good hand to pat the narrow snout resting against him like a pillow. "Am I thinking too loud?" he whispers, and there's an answering _whuff_. "Sorry. I'm just homesick."

 

And he really is.

 

He wants to sleep in his own bed, in his own quarters, where he doesn't have to worry about monsters digging down to eat him in his sleep, where he doesn't have to huddle up to another living creature so he doesn't shiver through the night. He wants to be able to get his meals from a synthesizer with the push of a button, not have to hunt and forage for every bite, or rely on the charity of an alien who hasn't even known him longer than a few weeks, tops. He wants to eat properly cooked food, with seasonings and spices and salt, hot food that wasn't roasted on a stick over a campfire.

 

He wants to take a real shower, with soap and shampoo, not just rinse himself off in cold river water. He wants to be able to brush his teeth with minty toothpaste, not chew on fibrous sticks that leave his mouth tasting of dirt and wood. He wants to be able to comb his hair and shave off his beard, instead of looking like some kind of vagrant who's been living in a forest for a month.

 

He wants to talk to people again. Really talk, not just monologue into a communicator every two hours. And while talking to Leo helps, they can't _truly_ communicate beyond simple body language and tone of voice.

 

He wants Bones to complain about him getting himself hurt and fuss over him, to heal his hurts and celebrate his safe return with a private drink in the officer's lounge. He wants Spock to welcome him back in that quiet, understated Vulcan way of his, professing his preference of manning the science station instead of assuming command. He wants Uhura to tease him about his simple pattern of audio transmissions he's used to get their attention, like he couldn't even try to use Morse code instead or something.

 

He wants Chekov to announce his presence on the bridge with that youthful enthusiasm he's had since day one. He wants Sulu to step off the rescue shuttle and deadpan an apology for taking so long to come get him. He wants Scotty to grumble about the loss of a shuttlecraft, to analyze the telemetry from the crash and tell him if there was actually anything he could've done to prevent this.

 

He wants to hold a proper memorial service for Fischer and Stephens, to honor their service and mourn their deaths, to let their colleagues pay their respects to two more lives lost in the line of duty. He wants to deal with mundane paperwork and sign forms and sit in his chair on the bridge.

 

He wants to go _home_.

 

Leo rumbles in its throat, almost like a deep purr, a soothing sound that makes his eyes feel heavy despite himself. "Okay, I get it," he murmurs, closing his eyes against the dark, and though the gentle purring of his alien friend isn't quite enough to drown out the creepy noises of the night, it definitely helps.

 

* * *

 

The next day goes a little better. Kirk's body is sore from the unusual exercise of limping his way across the landscape, but yesterday's portion of the trek allowed him to experiment a bit to find out just how reliable his weakened leg is, and how to best pace himself to cover ground without tiring himself out as much, letting him hike a little further between breaks.

 

And better yet, about three miles upriver from where he and Leo camped for the night, he comes across a small grove of tomato-berry trees.

 

He has nothing to carry them in. He can't even use his boots, like the longsnout did for the medicinal plants it collected, needing the protection against the occasional rough terrain. But his appetite has started coming back with a vengeance, and he decides to take a break early, using the time to eat as much as his belly will hold.

 

His scaly friend sniffs at the berry juice on his fingers, and makes an odd sneezing sound, pawing at its nose as if the smell was offensive. "What? Don't tell me you're allergic or something," he says with a chuckle, and Leo snorts, turning up its nose and padding away to take a drink from the river. "Fine, that just means more for me, buddy."

 

But something seems different, and as he feasts on the berries, he tries to put his finger on it.

 

The river.

 

The current seems faster than it was downstream, rushing a little louder over rocks in the center of the flow. And there's a low rumble in the distance like thunder. _We can't be close to my bathing spot already. The bank is still sandy here. And I don't remember seeing this place when I was scouting it out._

 

But the river goes around a bend, hidden behind the trees that grow near the shores, and he can't quite see where the noise is coming from. An uneasy feeling settles into his stomach that has nothing to do with the food.

 

He grabs the hiking stick and hobbles down the sandy riverbank, ignoring the inquisitive sound from Leo, and the slightly alarmed bark that follows it once the longsnout realizes he's pushing himself faster, harder than he was before.

 

And he stops as he rounds the bend, leaning hard on the branch for support as he catches sight of what lies beyond the curve of the river.

 

This waterfall is a lot bigger than the one he's used to.

 

It's over forty feet high, a constant violent rush of water over a slightly angled surface, large rocks sticking out of the water in a maze of boulders, and there's a deep pool at the bottom, so deep that he can't see the bottom. Kirk stares at it, feeling the phantom ache of his body battering into rocks and debris on its way downstream, and he looks down at his arms and torso, finally knowing where the yellowing bruises on his flesh came from.

 

"I went over _that_?"

 

No wonder he felt like shit when he woke up.

 

Leo thrums worriedly at his side, and he looks down at the longsnout, its four black eyes blinking up at him. "I'm okay," he tells it, but his gaze is drawn back to the waterfall almost against his will.

 

_I don't remember going over._

 

That's probably a good thing, but he can't help but marvel at the fact that he didn't break any bones on the way down. Or that he didn't just drown, caught in the deep pool at the base of the falls, pinned down by the weight of the water endlessly cascading down on top of him.

 

_I could've died._

 

And his crew never would've known what happened to him.

 

He shivers a little at the thought, and a scaly head nudges at his hand insistently, that worried thrum in Leo's throat getting louder. "I'm okay," he repeats, as much to himself as to his longsnout friend. He's okay. He's not dead, and he's not that badly hurt. He'll heal.

 

"Come on," he says to Leo, eyeing the way the ground rises sharply near the waterfall. There'll be no hiking along the shore during this leg of the journey. "We need to find a way around. There's no way I can climb that like this."

 

* * *

 

It takes four hours to bypass the waterfall, and Kirk is exhausted by the time Leo barks a demand to stop for the night. Gray clouds are gathering overhead, thunder rumbling on the horizon, and a light rain is already striking the canopy of leaves overhead as the longsnout sniffs out shelter.

 

They're in luck; there's a burrow already dug out underneath an old gnarled tree, and Leo only has to spend a few minutes making it wide enough for the both of them. This time, he crawls in without a word of protest, shivering as the cold rain drips down his bare chest. The dirt is damp and chilly, but Leo's scaly hide is like a little furnace, and the longsnout curls around him like a puppy with its littermates, rumbling softly in its throat.

 

He can't help a small smile from touching his lips, still shivering from the chill as the small burrow slowly warms from their shared body heat. "You know, this had better not be some kind of courting ritual," he jokes in a whisper, his voice shaking with cold and fatigue, and he closes his eyes as he leans into the touch. It's not the same as a hug, but it's close. "It just won't work out between us, you know."

 

Leo nudges him with its head, and begins to purr, as if to say, _go to sleep, you stupid human._

 

"Good idea," he agrees, and drifts off to the rumbling of the longsnout, a distant roll of thunder, and the gentle patter of the rain aboveground.


	15. Day Thirty-One

If Kirk thought that hiking through rough terrain was bad before, it's about ten times worse when it's pouring rain. Soft mud squishes underfoot, and his limping gait threatens to send his feet slipping out from underneath him more than once. So as much as he would love to make progress in his trek upriver, he's forced to concede defeat after only an hour, during which he's traveled less than half a mile. Leo croons worriedly at his heels, ushering him back to the safety of the burrow, its eight legs giving it no trouble in keeping its footing.

 

"Cheater," he mutters, steadying himself against the longsnout's rain-slicked scaly back.

 

But worse than the slippery mud, worse than the fact that this is probably going to delay him an entire day in the journey back to the tree, is the _cold_.

 

He hasn't been this cold since the crash. With the thermal blanket from the survival gear, he hadn't really noticed much of a chill before, the silvery material insulating him against the weather effectively enough to make up for the lack of a proper shelter. But he doesn't have it now. Nor does he have a shirt, or the lower half of his pants, leaving him exposed to the merciless rain and the wind. He's damp and shivering, and there isn't a single chance in hell that he can start a fire in these conditions, even if he somehow managed to find enough dry wood to burn.

 

The burrow isn't entirely dry either. Water soaks the ground, dampening the earth that makes up the walls, the ceiling, the floor, and the entrance to the tunnel leading down underground is slick with cold mud. But it's at least somewhat sheltered by the tree above, sparing it from the worst of the deluge, so it's better than literally nothing. He curls in on himself, dragging his bad leg up towards his chest, involuntarily trembling from the chill.

 

Leo, on the other hand, seems to be just fine with the temperature, adapted to ignore the cold and the dampness. Which sort of makes sense. The longsnouts are scaly and reptilian, but that doesn't mean they're cold-blooded, and he's seen how skilled his alien friend is at fishing, using techniques that it definitely didn't learn from watching the captain, so it must be used to getting wet. And Leo's constantly warm hide is proof enough that it doesn't need to bask in the sun like Earth reptiles often do. The confined space of the burrow captures their combined body heat, warming him just enough to ward off hypothermia. It isn't comfortable, and it isn't truly warm, but it's enough. It'll have to be.

 

"Y-y-you're lucky," he stammers out through shivering lips, side by side with the longsnout. "Humans sssuck at this. Gotta h-have a shirt at-t least."

 

Leo just _whuffs_ in reply, nudging him with its head.

 

With nothing to do but wait and shiver, time passes almost agonizingly slowly as the rain continues to pour down from the heavens, thunder rolling across the horizon through gray clouds. He can't even sleep to pass the time, too uncomfortable to really rest, and his injuries ache oddly along with the shift in the weather, a bone-deep discomfort that doesn't ease no matter what he tries.

 

It's probably midday when Leo stirs, touching a paw to his chest in a gesture that he has no trouble understanding. _Stay here._ The longsnout pads out of the burrow, probably go to find lunch for the both of them, leaving him alone underground, and he closes his eyes, trying to save his energy. _What a miserable day._

 

But a few minutes later, his communicator chirps.

 

He's immediately alert, adrenaline momentarily pushing the chill from his body, and he clutches at the device with numb fingers, flipping it open.

 

His body is cold, but his heart warms at the sound of McCoy's familiar voice. " _Jim, don't you ever do that to me again,_ " the doctor complains, and the typical grouchy concern in his voice brings a small smile to Kirk's lips. " _I swear to God, every single gray hair I have has your name on it._ "

 

"Sorry, Bones," he whispers, wishing that his friend could hear him. They still don't have the speed of the transmission quite right, so McCoy sounds a little slower than he probably should, but right now Kirk could not care less. Just hearing his voice is a huge relief, a much-needed boost to his dreary mood.

 

" _Spock and Sulu are trying to hash out a rescue plan right now. Guess they don't want to take the same way down you did, so it's gonna be a little while. They've got to run simulations to make sure no one else's gonna crash on the way to come getcha. I asked Scotty if we could just beam you up, but apparently you'd have to sit perfectly still for hours and it'd probably scramble you all to hell in the process, so that's out. So you've gotta hang in there 'til we can come for you._ "

 

That's about what he expected to hear, right down to not having an estimate of how much longer he's going to be stranded down here. But at this point, it just helps to know that they're working on it at all. _Any_ news is good news.

 

McCoy sighs, sounding a little annoyed. " _I'm not gonna ask you why you named your new alien dog friend after me, but be careful. You don't know where it's been._ " He clears his throat, and Kirk can _hear_ him putting away his best friend hat and replacing it with the doctor hat. " _Try to keep your wounds clean, especially if they haven't scabbed over yet. If you have to start a course of antibiotics, make sure you keep up with it for at least five days before you stop, and don't miss any doses. I'd ask you to send along your vitals with your next check-in, but they'll be useless by the time I get back to you. Just make sure you get lots of rest and stay hydrated._ "

 

"Got that covered," Kirk mutters, giving the communicator a cynical look. It's not like McCoy knows that he's taking a day off from his hike back to familiar grounds. But he also doubts that shivering in a hole in the ground is what the doctor had in mind.

 

There's a slight pause before McCoy continues, like he's thinking. " _Without a sample of the poison, or any real idea what specific symptoms it caused, I can't give you much advice. We're still getting the feed from your biosensors, but it's accelerated just as much as your messages are. If you got hit with the toxin five days before you were well enough to call us, and you're recovering all right now, chances are it's wearing off on its own._ "

 

Five days! He reels with the revelation, staring at the device in his hand. It was one thing to see the evidence of days-old healing bruises on his body, to have some vague sensation that he'd been out of it for a while. It's a whole other thing to get an actual number, a concrete idea of how long he was caught in feverish delirium.

 

No wonder McCoy sounds so stressed.

 

" _You said your muscles are still weak where you got stung, so if that's not going away, there might be localized muscle tissue damage. Mild exercise is fine, but if it hurts, don't push it or you could injure yourself worse. Ideally, you should stay put and give yourself time to recuperate, but I trust you know that already. Use your common sense, if you've got any left, and don't do anything stupid._ "

 

He sighs, and there's a murmur in the background, something that isn't picked up clearly in the recording. " _I'm out of time, so good luck, Jim. McCoy out._ "

 

Kirk fully expects that to be the end of it for the time being. Every minute they spend recording a message for him is hours down here on Atalanta, and now that they know that, he imagines they're working as quickly as they can, not wanting to waste any time with other tasks.

 

Which is why it surprises him when Uhura's voice comes through the communicator next. " _Hey, captain. Doctor McCoy is recording his message for you right now, but you sound like you could use another friendly voice._ "

 

He smiles, another bloom of warmth in his chest helping to chase away some of the chill. Of course. With two messages recording at the same time, no time is lost on their end. _I love my crew._

 

" _I'm sorry it took me so long to notice your messages, and to figure out what they were. I haven't even listened to a fraction of a percent of them because there hasn't been time. But I want you to know that I'm listening now, and we're not going to leave you down there alone._ "

 

There's a scuff of claws on dirt at the entrance to the burrow, signaling Leo's return, and the longsnout makes an inquisitive noise at the sound coming from the communicator as it joins him in the safety of the shelter.

 

_Prime Directive,_ he reminds himself. But it's kind of too late for that, isn't it? The young alien has seen him use the damn thing countless times, even heard Spock's first message three days ago. And really... what's the harm in it? The longsnouts aren't technologically anywhere close to making something like this; they're far too primitive.

 

So he just smiles a little, unwilling to close the communicator and cut off Uhura's message before he can hear the whole thing. Leo _whuff_ s and drops a clawful of fish and edible leaves on his chest, curling up close to help chase away the chill, listening in rapt fascination to the sound of another human's voice filling the little underground shelter, four black eyes glinting a little in the dim light.

 

" _You really scared us when you stopped transmitting,_ " Uhura admits. " _I hope you're feeling better by the time you get this. Doctor McCoy's really worried about you. We all are. And Spock and Sulu are working hard to figure out how to get you back. So just hang in there, okay? We need you._ "

 

He can't help but smile fondly, so grateful that he has the best crew in the fleet, and the most considerate and compassionate communications officer he's ever known. It might be hard for some people to really wrap their heads around the fact that while they think he's only been gone like an hour and a half on their end, it's been weeks for him. But not Uhura. And whether it's because she could hear the desperate joy in his voice at finally having contact with the ship, or simply reasoned it out herself, it's her intuition that makes all the difference.

 

" _You've already sent us almost four and a half hours of audio, so I'm never going to be able to catch up with all your transmissions while you're still on the surface, but if you want to keep up with your bi-hourly check-ins, go right ahead. If that was just to try to get my attention, I'd still like to request you signal us at least twice a day, so we know you're still okay. I'll be keeping an eye on you as best as I can. And I want you to send confirmation that you got this message after an hour's passed, all right?_ "

 

" _We're all rooting for you up here, sir. I know you won't let us down. Uhura out._ "

 

Even after silence once again fills the burrow, he keeps holding onto the communicator, his one link to his ship - his home, reluctant to put it down. He only gives in and clips it to his belt when Leo starts nudging him insistently with its snout, nosing the food closer to his face. "Okay, okay, I'll eat," he says, giving his companion a small grin. "You're such a mother hen."

 

The underground shelter is still chilled by the rain, but Kirk doesn't think he has ever felt so warm.


	16. Day Thirty-Two

_The halls of the_ Enterprise _are empty and silent. Every footstep echoes down endless white corridors, and the air is stale and cold, like a tomb. The atmospheric controls must be disabled..._

_What happened? Was the ship attacked? Where_ is _everyone?_

_He wraps his arms around himself, shivering, rubbing his hands briskly over his upper arms. The friction does little to warm him, and he can see faint puffs of his own breath with every exhale. There's an inch of water on the deckplates, and he sloshes through it to the turbolift, limping on a leg that is oddly stiff and unresponsive to his command. He presses the control to summon the elevator that will take him to the bridge, and a strange rumbling sound resonates through the deck, growing ever closer._

_The door slides opens with a liquid hiss, and water pours out in a massive deluge, a constant wave without end, knocking him off his feet and sending him careening through the corridors, bouncing painfully off bulkheads and jagged rocks. Then the floor disappears, and he falls, the roar of thunder in his ears._

_He opens his mouth to cry out, falling endlessly into the dark._

 

A clawed paw abruptly slaps against his mouth, and he jolts awake, disoriented and alarmed. A very, _very_ quiet rumble reaches his ears, and he squints into the darkness to see a long, narrow snout and four black eyes looking down at him. _Leo?_ There's an odd tension in the scaly body next to him, and it's still nearly pitch black outside. _It's the middle of the night. What's going on?_

 

But then he hears it.

 

The rain has stopped. And the sounds of the nocturnal creatures are oddly quiet, a wary silence settled over the forest like a thick fog, and in that silence, he can hear a quiet hiss just outside the entrance to the burrow. The sound strikes a primal fear deep within him, and he doesn't need to see the source to realize exactly why he _should_ be absolutely terrified.

 

There's a Fucking Nightmare right outside.

 

And the little hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he hears multiple quiet footfalls, creeping through the eerily silent forest.

 

_It's hunting._

 

Apparently satisfied that Kirk isn't about to make some kind of sound and bring the predator's attention straight to them, the longsnout removes its paw from his mouth, and it hunkers down low, barely breathing, its posture unmistakable. It's as frightened as he is.

 

He practically holds his breath, inching one hand over to take up the knife in his stronger left hand, the only weapon he has down in the burrow. It's not enough. If the monster outside digs down into the burrow, a small blade like the survival knife is going to be like a papercut to this thing.

 

A cascade of dirt crumbles down on the two of them, the burrow's entrance disturbed as a long black shape reaches in, probing, searching. Tipped with a single cruel claw the size of a butcher knife, the leg of the Fucking Nightmare scrapes along the dirt, clawing up still-damp earth as it seeks its prey. And all the while, that quiet, sinister hissing filters down into the deathly silence, competing with the rapid pounding of Kirk's heart.

 

The captain and the longsnout remain frozen, hardly breathing as the predator up above sweeps its questing appendage barely inches above their heads, and Kirk grips the knife so tightly that his knuckles ache from the pressure.

 

It feels like an absolute eternity before the leg withdraws, but he doesn't dare breathe a sigh of relief, nor does he relax his guard. They're not safe yet.

 

There's an odd snuffling sound, a clicking of fangs, and he abruptly realizes that the Fucking Nightmare is _sniffing_ the burrow, trying to pick the scents of its inhabitants. And he hopes with all his might that the damp mud still clinging to his body is enough to mask his scent from the hungry predator.

 

Minutes pass.

 

Finally, _finally_ , there's a disappointed hiss, and the sound of something big on the move, prowling away through the forest. And only when he can no longer hear it does it feel safe to breathe, his hands shaking from the adrenaline. Leo doesn't make a sound, but most of the tension in its lean muscles is gone, and it bumps its head against his in a now-familiar gesture. A sign of friendliness, affection, and apparently _relief_ too.

 

He can't help but agree, returning the gesture, leaning his forehead against Leo's. _Let's not do that again._

 

It's easy to see why the longsnout has been so insistent on digging their shelters so deep, far enough underground that the most terrifying nocturnal predator on Atalanta can't reach them in their sleep. But he shudders to think of how vulnerable they might've been, had the Fucking Nightmare decided that the burrow was occupied after all.

 

Its clawed feet didn't look very well adapted to digging, but Kirk knows all too well what impossible feats someone may be driven to do by hunger. An easy meal is always the most attractive when your belly is empty, but if there are no other choices, a difficult hunt is _necessary_.

 

And with nowhere to run, both he and Leo would have been sitting ducks.

 

He shivers a little in a way that has nothing to do with the cold, feeling a similar shudder in his companion, who presses up against his side like a frightened puppy. Or a child who has just had a nightmare.

 

And it strikes him again just how young this longsnout must be, close to adulthood but not quite there yet, so much smaller than the rest of its family group. A family he hasn't seen except in passing at the river.

 

Why _is_ Leo out on its own, anyway?

 

It clearly isn't safe for a juvenile longsnout to be out on its own here on Atalanta. He's witnessed that first-hand. Without the safety in numbers of being with the rest of its family, Leo would've been dinner for the pack of featherfiends all those days ago, just like Kirk himself nearly was. And though he has no idea what kind of social dynamics they might have in their primitive culture, he rather doubts that a single Fucking Nightmare would be quite as terrifying to an entire pack of longsnouts together. At the very least, a predator might not choose to attack so many of them at once.

 

He can understand why Leo risked being alone at the river, watching a strange alien using technology that it had never seen before, fascinated by the human that had saved its life. But the young longsnout should not have been in need of rescuing in the first place; if it hadn't gone off alone, it wouldn't have been cornered by the featherfiends. And the adults had made it clear that they intended to avoid him, that first day that he saw them at the river. So it seems unlikely they would have approved of Leo seeking him out.

 

So why was it alone?

 

"I bet your parents are worried sick about you," Kirk whispers, and the narrow snout turns in his direction, barely visible in the dark. "Do they even know where you went?"

 

It's been days, at least, since Leo was with its own kind. How complex is their language? Was the young alien able to tell its family group where it was going, or did Leo simply disappear one day? Kirk feels a pang of guilt for his role in all this. Somewhere, Leo's family is probably concerned about their missing youngster, and it's all his fault for being dumb enough to fall asleep by the river. And now his young friend is stuck caring for an injured human that has no place in this ecosystem, who shouldn't even be here, violating the Prime Directive every single day as he interacts with a representative of the local sapient species.

 

_What a clusterfuck this has been._

 

Leo doesn't make a sound, just pillows its head on his chest, nudging him with its snout in another familiar gesture. The one that means it's time to go to sleep.

 

_Wish I could, but being scared shitless is a better stimulant than a cup of coffee._

 

It reminds him of that first night he spent down here, unable to sleep, jumping at strange noises in the forest. Now he knows what most of those sounds are, what kind of creatures they belong to, but it's the noises he _doesn't_ hear that unnerve him the most.

 

What are the odds that there's only one Fucking Nightmare in this part of the woods, after all?

 

So even as Leo's breathing evens out as it succumbs to sleep, Kirk lies awake, knife clutched in one hand, listening for the return of that deathly stillness.

 

* * *

 

The next day dawns with good news and bad news.

 

The good news is that his wounds are healing relatively well. The puncture wounds left from the featherfiends' stingers - and their teeth - have mostly sealed themselves, although the new pink skin is still sensitive, and he can already tell they're going to scar. His arm is getting a little stronger, his leg a little less prone to trying to give out underneath him, although he still has a heavy limp, slowing him down as he and Leo hike through the forest to meet back up with the river.

 

The bad news is that there's something wrong with Leo.

 

In hindsight, he should have seen it sooner. But the changes have been pretty gradual and subtle. Its hide has gotten duller in color over the last day or so. Blue and green stripes, once camouflaged perfectly against the foliage, have a strange gray sheen to them now, muting the colors into a muddy mess, and the smooth scales feel weirdly dry and rough under his fingers. And there's an almost cloudy look to Leo's four black eyes, and while the young alien seems to have little trouble navigating by smell, it's clearly bothering it, because every so often Leo stops and paws at its face, like trying to scratch a persistent itch.

 

It's not just the face, either. Rather than walk along the shore, the longsnout wades through the shallows at the edge of the bank, occasionally ducking its head under the surface and flinging water over its back, making an agitated rumble in its throat.

 

"I hope you're not getting sick now," Kirk tells it when they stop for their midday break. Not for the first time, it occurs to him that he doesn't really know all that much about his new friend's biology, and other than the antibiotic poultice that Leo used to heal him, he doesn't know anything about local herbal medicine either. If something is seriously wrong with the longsnout, there's not much he can do about it. And without Leo... he doesn't know what he would do.

 

_If it's my fault for dragging you out here to look after me, I'll never forgive myself._

 

The longsnout nudges his hand like a dog wanting to be petted, and he obliges, scratching softly at those dull scales. It's a little weird, to be treating a sapient creature like a pet, but the purring sound resonating over the sound of rushing water is enough to assure him that it's not any kind of cultural faux pas. Leo turns its head, twisting around to allow him access to the itchiest spots on its hide.

 

It's not acting like it's seriously ill, at least. Irritated and grouchy, yes, and who could blame it? Still, he can't help but worry a little.

 

"We're quite a pair, aren't we?" he says out loud, and clouded black eyes blink up at him. "You helped me, and I'm gonna do everything in my power to make sure you're okay. It's the least I can do after all you've done for me."

 

Leo just butts its head against his arm, and slips away into the river to fish for their lunch. And this time, Kirk takes up the crude spear he made, and follows.

 

They're both impaired, and the fishing is difficult. Leo misses its strikes multiple times before catching anything, and Kirk's left-handed spear-fishing technique leaves much to be desired, nearly sending him toppling into the river more than once. But as they share their extremely meager catch, Leo rumbles in gratitude, and perhaps this time, the food is not the point.


	17. Day Thirty-Four

The river bank has been gravel again ever since Kirk and his scaly companion bypassed the waterfall four days ago, but the captain swears that this stretch of the river is starting to look familiar. And when they round a bend and he spots the short, bifurcated waterfall and the small alcove that he used for bathing, it's such a relief. It's been five days since they left the sandy burrow downriver, and in that time, he estimates that he's hobbled his way across thirty-five miles, give or take. His back and legs are sore and aching from the unusual workload of limping along, heavily favoring his left knee, and his body all but cries out in relief that the long journey is almost over. Only about four more miles to go until they're back at the shelter of his chosen tree, where the vast majority of his gear waits for his return.

 

But not all of it is stored there.

 

The small campfire is scattered, paw prints tracked through gray ash and scattered among the rocks, the tracks sized about right for featherfiends. The survival pack is torn a little around the closure, half-full of rotted vegetation, and there are a few small holes burned into the material from contact with hot ash. But to his relief, the fishing line is still roughly where he left it, tied to an appropriately-sized stick with the hook embedded into the soft part of the wood so it won't snag on anything. The makeshift fishing pole is lying half in the river, but it's wedged between two rocks, keeping it from sweeping downstream, and he awkwardly bends down to rescue it from the persistent current.

 

It takes a few minutes of searching before he realizes that the black shreds lying in the gravel aren't fragments of burned wood, like he thought, but the remains of his undershirt.

 

The featherfiends must've ripped it apart because it smelled like him, he decides, examining the fabric and finding a disturbing amount of teeth marks through the cloth. Either that or shredding it was just too fun to pass up. Either way, it's obvious that he won't be wearing the destroyed shirt again.

 

Leo pads along the former campsite, long nose lowered to the ground, sniffing its way around, pausing for a moment at a point where the mud at the riverbank is churned up with claw marks. The longsnout's eyes have cleared up a little, but its vision is still obviously impaired, and the unhealthy gray shade to its scales has only gotten worse over the last two days, giving it a dusty appearance.

 

Kirk has to admit, he's a little surprised that the young alien hasn't jumped at the chance to reunite with its family. Twice now they've come across adult-sized longsnout tracks in the mud, no more than a day old. But besides sniffing at the paw prints, Leo hasn't so much as glanced in the direction the tracks lead. Even here at his former temporary camp, he can see the young longsnout lower its muzzle to the disturbed earth, sniffing only for a moment before continuing on its way.

 

It doesn't make a lot of sense to him. Leo hasn't seen its family in at least a week, and it's treating signs of its people as barely more interesting than the rocks. With it looking so sick, why wouldn't it want to return home, where the adults no doubt could treat it with their greater knowledge of local medicine? He might suspect that maybe Leo ran away from home, or maybe it was exiled for its interest in the strange alien biped, going against the command of the biggest adult in the group - an alpha, maybe? But if that was the case, he'd expect the young longsnout to look _sad_ , at least. Nor has it really looked too worried about its condition, besides being visibly annoyed by the itching of graying scales.

 

Maybe he's being unfair. The longsnouts are aliens, with alien thought patterns and customs. He can't expect them to react the same way as a human would, no matter how familiar Leo's behavior has been. But it doesn't fit. Leo was calling for help, that day at the ravine. Why would it do that if its family was shunning it?

 

He shakes his head and turns back to the matter at hand, rinsing days' worth of dirt and decaying plant matter off the survival pack. It still stinks of rotting berries, but he has precious few containers with which to carry anything, so he can't afford to simply throw it away. The only other thing he can salvage here is the fishing line and hook, but that's enough. It'll have to be.

 

"Come on," he calls out to Leo, who raises its head at the now familiar sound of his voice. "If we go now, we can be at the tree in two hours."

 

Not understanding the words doesn't mean Leo is oblivious to his tone of voice and the fact that he's turning away from the river. The longsnout barks, abandoning whatever scent it was investigating, joining him once more. And together, they venture into the forest.

 

Kirk still has to lean on the hiking stick as he limps along, his leg still supported by the crude brace he created, but treading familiar grounds makes the walk easier somehow. Repeated trips from the tree to the river have started to wear a visible path in the underbrush, like his very own game trail, and it's easy to remember where to go, following his own faint tracks until they emerge into the clearing where his tree stands alone, the bright yellow fabric of his damaged uniform shirt dangling from one branch as a marker.

 

It looks fairly undisturbed. A few of the anti-Fucking Nightmare spikes around the base of the tree have been knocked down or uprooted, but it seems that once the horrific nocturnal predator realized he wasn't home, it left the tree alone. And though his roof of branches and moss has collapsed - probably during the last rain storm - it doesn't appear that any of his gear has fallen from where he tied it all in place with the paracord.

 

Now, of course, he has to get up there.

 

Leo makes an inquisitive _chirrup_ , craning its long neck back to peer up at that flash of yellow, thirty feet off the ground. "I don't know either," Kirk says, looking consideringly up at the tree. "Guess I shouldn't have jinxed it."

 

He flexes his right hand experimentally. His grip still feels weaker than it should be, but it's definitely stronger than it was when he first woke up in the sandy burrow downriver. Maybe if he's careful... but he doesn't trust his injured knee to cooperate quite as well without the brace on, which means he can't use it to climb either way. And a fall from thirty feet up would hurt, especially if he fell on any of those stakes at the base of the tree.

 

But it's not like he has much choice.

 

"Hey," he says, getting Leo's attention, and he limps over to the base of the tree. It's awkward, trying to kneel down enough to reach the ground, and he has to position his leg out in front of him so he can start scraping away the dirt at the base of the defenses. "Can you help me get these out of the way?"

 

The longsnout watches him, head cocked to the side as if confused. But once he digs up enough of it to tug the sharpened branch free and tosses it aside, those intelligent eyes practically light up in understanding, and it sets to shoveling away the earth with its well-adapted paws.

 

With both of them working together, it doesn't take long before one side of the tree is free of sharp, pointy objects. It's as safe as it's going to be, and he puts on a confident smile at Leo's worried look. "I'll be fine. Don't worry. It'll just be a few minutes and then I'll be right back." He hopes.

 

And with the empty survival pack slung over one shoulder, he begins his ascent.

 

Kirk has gone rock climbing before, years and years ago, and he's rather good at it, if he does say so himself. Climbing a tree isn't quite the same thing, but they share the same basic principles of finding handholds, securing yourself as best you can before shifting your weight to a new position. And rock climbing doesn't let you hook a knee around a branch as extra insurance from falling, either.

 

That's not to say that climbing the tree with only two and a half limbs is _easy_. He nearly falls twice, making Leo bark in alarm both times, clawing worriedly at the base of the trunk.

 

"I'm _fine_ ," he calls down, nearly hanging upside-down from a high branch, flashing a slightly sheepish grin at his concerned alien friend. Leo doesn't look convinced, standing on both pairs of hind legs, its four forepaws braced against the tree as it watches him right himself and continue the climb.

 

He has to shift the collapsed roof out of the way to reach the stash of gear, tipping the scattered branches over the edge and letting them fall to the ground. Leo yelps and jumps back, startled, and lets out an almost accusatory _ruu-ruu-ruu_.

 

Kirk can't help a small laugh. "Sorry. Almost there." On the ground below him, the longsnout takes to pacing in circles around the tree, neck craned back to watch him high in the branches with worried eyes. But he reaches the stash of gear without further incident, and wedges a branch firmly in the crook of his good knee before he begins gathering everything together.

 

Not everything has survived his time away intact. Before he left to go fishing initially, he'd wrapped up the survival gear inside the thermal blanket, using the paracord to tie it in a rough sack before lashing it to the tree. During the storm, something must've struck the blanket hard enough to damage it, because there's a long gash in one side, and the small container of water purification tablets beneath it is pretty much destroyed, the tablets within dissolved into a gunky mess by rainwater.

 

But he's been drinking unpurified river water for days now, so that ship has pretty much sailed regardless. And now that he has access to the metal canteen, he can simply boil any water he plans to drink from now on. So all things considered, of all the things he could've lost to the weather, the water chems are probably the thing he could best afford to lose.

 

He refills the survival pack with most of the gear, packing it away as best he can, and straps the emergency medkit against one shoulder, next to the other pack, and slings his handmade bow across his back.

 

The smart thing to do would be to stay up in the tree, the way he's been doing for weeks before that day down at the river. But Leo can't climb trees, and there's no way that Kirk can leave the young alien to face a hostile world alone, without even its family to keep it safe. Especially with the longsnout's health in question, those once vibrant scales getting duller by the day.

 

Sleeping on the ground is still a terrifying idea, for good reasons. And maybe it's the stupidest idea in all of history to be giving up the relative safety - no matter how uncomfortable - of his temporary home away from home up in the branches of this tree. But he also knows that without full use of all his limbs, trying to climb up and down this thing every day is risking a broken neck or worse. And now that he knows his crew is working on coming to get him, it would be even stupider and embarrassing if he got his ass killed by falling out of a tree before they can rescue him.

 

So it's with great care that he begins descending from the tree, and it's a hell of a lot easier going down. Leo is on him almost the moment his feet touch the ground, leaning against his legs and nearly knocking him into the tree trunk. "Ow, hey, I'm okay," he says, smiling a little. "Come on then. We've got a few hours until nightfall to find a better spot to sleep."


	18. Day Thirty-Five

True to his word, now that Kirk has access to his emergency supplies again, he takes up his fair share of providing food for himself and his companion. Line fishing is _so_ much easier than spear fishing ever was, especially with his right arm still giving him too much trouble to use it accurately enough for such a thing. Not to mention the balance issues with his injured leg.

 

He sits on the flat fishing rock, legs dangling over the edge, the cool water soothing against the soreness of his knee. His bow and arrows sit within easy reach at his side, and while it's not the deadliest weapon, at least the draw weight isn't too high for his weakened arm to handle it, and it's better than nothing. On the bank, a small fire crackles away, roasting a few of the fish he's already caught, and it's a truly great luxury to be able to look forward to having a hot meal again.

 

Not that Leo agrees. The longsnout sniffs at the cooked fish, licks one briefly, and then leaves it alone entirely, slowly padding over to another flat rock to lie down, its sides heaving momentarily in one massive sigh before it lies still, all four eyes closed.

 

Kirk is worried.

 

His young alien friend hasn't eaten anything today, not even any of the raw fish he offered when he first started reeling in his catch an hour ago. The gray tinge to the longsnout's scales is almost opaque now, making it look like it's coated from head to toes in thick ash. And it seems sluggish, like it's depressed or extremely tired, not even showing much curiosity in his more energy-efficient fishing technique. Whatever is wrong with Leo, it's clearly getting worse. And Kirk has no idea what he can do to help.

 

None of his medical supplies are designed to treat anything like this, even if he knew the cause. And it seems unfair that his own injuries were so easily tended in comparison. Why should Leo have to suffer, when the captain is on his way to recovery?

 

There may not be anything he can medically do, in the end, but that doesn't mean he shouldn't do what he can to make his young companion as comfortable as possible. He owes the longsnout that much, after everything that it's done to keep him alive. As far as he's concerned, it repaid its debt to him for saving its life _days_ ago.

 

There's a small tug on the line, and he pulls up his prize, a wriggling silver fish no bigger than five inches. A mere mouthful for him, but maybe he can convince Leo to eat it. It's small, unlikely to upset the longsnout's stomach - if that's why it isn't eating, anyway - and Leo has insisted that he eat often enough that it's only fair to return the favor.

 

He rebaits the hook with another chunk of fish and wedges the pole between two rocks, letting the hook dangle in the water without fear that some river monster will run off with the whole thing. And with fish in hand, he limps over to Leo and drops the morsel inches in front of the alien youngster's graying snout.

 

Leo's four eyes blink open, a little startled at the sudden appearance of food, and its gaze shifts to Kirk, but it makes no move to eat the fish. "Come on, just one," the captain asks, nudging the little fish closer, the same way Leo does to him when it doesn't think he's had enough to eat. "You have to keep up your strength if you want to get better."

 

The longsnout doesn't look terribly enthused by the prospect. And maybe it's only humoring him when it picks up the morsel and slowly chews on it, but it's eating, and that's the important thing. Kirk reaches out and lightly scratches at a particularly dry-looking patch of scales on the side of Leo's neck, and his fingernails tear right through. There's a flash of blue underneath, the same color as the young alien's blood, and he is _horrified_ for a moment before he realizes the blue is solid and shiny, not oozing out from the tear in ashen scales.

 

 _I am the biggest idiot on this planet._ "You're shedding your skin? I thought you were sick or something," he admits, taking a closer look. Yes, as the dry outer scales peel away where his touch ripped through, the layer underneath it is patterned blue and green, soft new scales that are as delicate as a newborn babe.

 

And now that the process has started, apparently that's what Leo has been waiting for. Swallowing the little morsel of fish, the longsnout moves with sudden energy, pawing at its face and scoring the dead outer scale layer with its claws. It rubs at the tears, pushing thick gray skin away from the brilliantly colored scales beneath, slick and wet with some kind of natural moisture between the layers.

 

But even though Leo has eight legs, it still can't reach everywhere, and flips over on its back to wriggle against the rocks in an attempt to scrape away the dead gray scales there.

 

"Let me help," Kirk offers, reaching out with both hands, fingers slightly curled to show what he wants to do. Leo immediately flips back over onto its belly and presents its back to him, now littered with tiny gashes in the gray, and gives him an encouraging rumble.

 

It sort of reminds him of peeling after a bad sunburn, except thicker and tougher, like a callus. The dead skin sloughs off under his fingers, stripping away in massive sheets and shreds. And to his mild surprise, running the length of Leo's spine is a new soft ridge that wasn't there before, flattened down beneath the restrictive gray layer. No longer compressed, it raises slightly, shining with clear fluid, standing about a half inch above the blue and green scales of the longsnout's back.

 

"What's this?" he asks, lightly touching the ridge. Leo just purrs, looking somewhat proud of itself, even as it continues to pick away at the dried scales on its belly and hindpaws.

 

Thinking back, he can't recall too many specific details about the adults in the group that he saw his second day on Atalanta. But he thinks he might've seen a similar dorsal ridge on the big one, the one that he'd seen the most clearly, and for longer than the others. A sign of maturity, perhaps?

 

And though he has no concrete evidence to support such a theory, a possible explanation for Leo's solitary disposition suddenly occurs to him. _Could this be some sort of coming-of-age rite?_

 

The longsnouts would hardly be the first culture he's ever heard of to test their maturing youth by sending them out into the wilderness. Historically, some of Earth's cultures have performed similar rituals, such as the native Australian tradition of walkabout, a rite of passage that is still observed by some. In Vulcan culture, the _kahs-wan_ fills a similar role, or at least it did before the planet was destroyed. Maybe... maybe the longsnouts do the same.

 

It would make sense. Freshly away from its family, the reflex to cry for help would be strong, especially if it was in a panic, and it would explain why those calls were not answered. It'd also explain why Leo has shown no interest in going home just yet. If that's the case, then maybe this is a significant molt in the alien's culture. Of course, this is all just a hunch on his part, but he really has no way to ask, to confirm his guess.

 

So he just does what he _can_ do, and continues to help Leo shed the ashy outer layer of scales, discarding it in thick strips on the gravel riverbank. Leo thrums happily in its throat, its hide gleaming with health, and the clear fluid is already beginning to dry in the sun, leaving a tacky residue. It's almost like watching a butterfly emerge from its cocoon, soft and vulnerable at first, until the warmth of the sunlight hardens the delicate tissues to withstand the rigors of everyday life.

 

And Kirk is really glad that he's here to help.

 

Not specifically in regards to the shedding itself. He's pretty sure that the longsnouts are able to take care of that themselves; it'd just take longer alone. But while Leo's new hide is still soft, it would be easy pickings for any predators that might be on the prowl for a meal. And while a shedding longsnout and an injured human are not incredibly threatening by themselves, there's still a certain safety in numbers, discouraging the pack of featherfiends from attacking. He hopes.

 

With all the dead scales removed, Leo looks like a whole new creature. The dorsal ridge sticks up just enough to be noticeable, starting at the base of its skull and tapering off a few inches before the end of the tail, and it's already begun to firm up as it dries.

 

"You look great," Kirk tells his young friend, admiring the odd beauty of a freshly-molted longsnout. Leo's coloring has never been quite so vivid and healthy-looking. And maybe it's his imagination, but it almost looks physically bigger, too.

 

Leo stretches out on the rock and basks in the sun for a few minutes, its fresh hide hardening as it dries. And without much warning or fanfare, it suddenly slips forward off the rock and into the river, sleek and graceful, all eight legs working in concert to propel it through the current. It disappears under the surface for a moment, before popping back up, water streaming off slick new scales. The growing lethargy of the past few days is gone, shed with its dead skin, and it barks enthusiastically at him in what he can only imagine to be a request to join it in its swim.

 

Kirk looks up and down the length of the river that he can see, checking for signs of featherfiends. They certainly seem to be alone. "Oh, what the hell," he decides, untying the makeshift brace from his leg, laying it down on the fishing rock.

 

The water is a few degrees colder than is truly comfortable, but it's nothing like the bone-chilling cold he endured during the last storm. And with the warm sun shining down from above, his body quickly adjusts to the slight chill as he joins his longsnout companion in the deeper part of the river. In the buoyancy of the water, he doesn't have to worry so much about his weakened limbs causing him any trouble, letting him swim along without the capability of causing him to lose his balance or fall.

 

Leo rumbles in approval, flicking water at him with one of its forepaws, and he grins and splashes back. "Oh, so that's how it is, is it?"

 

It reminds him so much of Sam that it _hurts_ , of when he and his brother were just boys back in Iowa, sneaking off to the local swimming hole and goofing off together, away from the whispers of nosy strangers who looked at two young children and saw only tragedy. Now here he is, once again out in the middle of nowhere, with no one around to judge him or pity him. And while he hasn't known Leo terribly long, he can't deny that he's become really fond of his young alien friend, who is probably the only reason he's still alive right now.

 

This isn't Iowa, of course. In Iowa he never had to worry about being ambushed by predators, only journalists, hungry for gossip about the family of the famous hero George Kirk. But for now, it's close enough.

 

Leo takes advantage of his nostalgic distraction and makes a _hraa-hraa_ of laughter as it splashes him in the face, making him sputter. He wipes water out of his eyes and grins. "Okay, that's it. No more mister nice captain."


	19. Day Forty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jim really earns the most recent tag on this fic in this chapter, so you've been forewarned. :)

Another day dawns over Atalanta, bright and sunny and warm, the lilac sky streaked with wispy white clouds. And as always, the gleaming speck in the heavens shines down like a constant star, watching over the world below.

 

And in the forest, an excited chorus of chirps ring out in eager anticipation, sticks snapping underfoot and leaves rustling violently as multiple sets of paws bolt through the underbrush in hot pursuit, led by a dog-like wail up ahead, a call for help.

 

The young longsnout moves with purpose, galloping on all eight paws, cutting a path through the forest. The hills begin to rise up along its sides as it runs headlong into the ravine, the same one where it nearly met its end all those days ago, and it lets out another cry, but doesn't stop running.

 

Behind it, the chirping of the featherfiends intensifies as the predators chase their prey into the dead end, a sheer wall of hard-packed earth, too high to climb in a hurry, and their scorpion-like tails raise above the predators' backs threateningly.

 

The longsnout reaches the end of the ravine, unable to retreat any further, and turns, baring its teeth and brandishing its front set of foreclaws at its pursuers. The featherfiends slow as they approach, hooting loudly, well aware that their prey has no escape. The leader of the pack repositions itself, calculating the optimal angle to pounce, to tear at soft underbelly and tender leg joints. It does not occur to any of the creatures that their intended meal does not look or smell frightened. Nor does it occur to them to look up.

 

A sharpened stick, fletched with feathers from the very same animals, abruptly whistles past and buries itself in the alpha's throat. It lets out a choked honk, pawing at the deadly projectile, unable to dislodge it. The rest of the pack whistle in confusion and alarm, unsure how to react to such an unexpected turn of events, and another arrow sails into the side of a second featherfiend, impaling it between the ribs.

 

Honking in bafflement and fear, spooked by weapons appearing from seemingly nowhere, the pack turns tail and retreats, leaving their wounded packmates behind.

 

Up on the edge of the ravine, Kirk steadies himself against a fallen tree and looses another arrow, striking his second target again, slowing it down enough for Leo to dispatch it with a bite to the throat, just as it did to the alpha. Thick blue blood coats the ground, and the strangled gasping of the injured predator cuts off almost instantly.

 

The longsnout calls out the _ruu-ruu-ruu_ of all-clear, peering up at the crude hunter's blind, and gives a pleased rumble when it sees him limp into view unharmed. "Great job," Kirk calls down with a grin. Maybe it's petty of him, but it feels a little satisfying to get back at the predators who've caused him so much trouble. And that aside, he's looking forward to eating meat again - _real_ meat, not fish or giant bugs.

 

There's a steep slope not far down the ravine, and he slides down it in an awkward half-crouch, his left knee buckling underneath him when he hits the ground. He grunts as his whole body jolts at the impact, but besides the dull pain of whacking his knees into hard-packed earth and knobbly sticks and stones, it doesn't hurt. A small victory in his path to healing.

 

Today is his second day getting around without the uncomfortable splint. He doesn't have a lot of choice; ten days of having sticks strapped against his mostly-bare leg is causing some terrible chafing, and he can't recharge the dermal regenerator if he runs it down patching up an easily-preventable injury day after day. His knee still isn't a hundred percent better, and lingering weakness in the joint forces him to continue walking with a limp, but unless he puts unusual strain on it - like sliding down the side of a ravine, for example - it's been cooperating. For the most part.

 

Leo _chirrups_ at him, and he waves off his alien companion's concern, getting back to his feet. "I'm fine. Doesn't hurt a bit."

 

He slings the bow across his back and approaches the dead featherfiends. Leo gives him a brief, proud bark, and he smiles back. "Thanks. We make a great team, don't we?" He carefully kneels down and pulls his arrows out of the carcasses, their tips coated in liquid blue. One of the arrows is split from the force of striking a target, to the point where it isn't useable anymore, and he tosses it aside. The other two, he wipes relatively clean against the feathery hide of their kill, and stashes them in the gold-sleeve quiver on his belt.

 

"Keep an eye out, all right?" He gestures towards his eyes and points down the ravine, and the longsnout responds with an affirmative _whuff_ , turning to face the direction in which the featherfiends fled.

 

Kirk draws the knife and sets to work field dressing their kills, slicing open soft underbellies and removing the guts. It's absolutely disgusting work, his hands and arms swiftly becoming slick with bright blue blood, and even he has to grimace a little at the intensity of the smell, but it's also necessary if they want to haul the carcasses away. These little bastards are _heavy_ , and removing the inedible parts will lighten the load.

 

Of course, that's not to say that all the organs are useless to him. Eating nothing but fish, bugs, and four kinds of plants isn't doing his body any favors in the nutrition department, and though a good portion of modern humans have never eaten any meat products that didn't come out of a food synthesizer, there once was a young boy who survived the worst famine of the twenty-third century and spent a good deal of his recuperation studying every survival guide he could get his hands on. So he is painfully, brutally aware that some organ meats are a gold mine of the vitamins and minerals that his body needs badly. Liver, kidneys, and hearts most of all. Brains too, to an extent, but it'll take too long and far too much effort to crack the skulls of these damn things, and the last thing he wants is to get some horrific alien prion disease, so he doesn't even try to harvest those.

 

"When I get back to the _Enterprise_ , I don't think I'm gonna tell Spock about this part," he says out loud as he works, and Leo _chirrups_ questioningly, glancing over at him. "He's a vegetarian," Kirk explains, as if the longsnout could understand him. "Oh sure, he'll tell me it was the only logical choice and that survival is paramount, but it's still kinda gross and I don't want to see him toss his cookies."

 

Unfortunately, he's not going to be able to get out of telling McCoy about it, and the doctor's likely to throw an epic fit about all the necessary but unsafe food practices he's been doing, up to and including eating a _lot_ of raw stuff. But he can cross that bridge when he comes to it.

 

At least it doesn't look like the featherfiends are coming back, too spooked by the mysterious deaths of their fellows. Which means it's time to eat, before it gets cold.

 

"Hey Leo, dinner's ready," he calls out, beckoning his companion over with a blood-streaked hand. Sitting side by side, facing out towards the exit to the ravine, they share the fruits of their labors, still warm and steaming from the predators' body heat. After weeks and weeks of eating the same few things every day, getting to taste something new is absolutely _heaven_ , no matter how disgusting it'll probably sound in his report. It doesn't taste quite like beef, with a stronger metallic taste - probably because of all the blood, really - but it doesn't taste _bad_ either, and he's actually grateful that he isn't wearing a shirt anymore because this is quite possibly the messiest meal he's ever eaten in his life.

 

Leo picks out some choice bits from the offal, grasping them between delicate claws and dropping them into his hand with an encouraging purr. Under normal circumstances, Kirk wouldn't eat anything that hasn't been confirmed as safe for human consumption - or at least restrict it to organs that he can identify. But Leo hasn't steered him wrong yet, and he knows he can't really afford to be choosy. So he smiles gratefully at his alien companion, and digs in.

 

* * *

 

It's perhaps the first time since he ran out of Starfleet rations that he's felt truly satisfied after a meal. With comfortably full bellies, Kirk and Leo each carry one of the gutted featherfiends down to the river, about an hour's walk from the ravine. It's the best spot, really; the riverbank is visually clear of trees and shrubbery, allowing an unobstructed view of any approaching animals. The distance from other vegetation is also ideal for building a fire, so he doesn't accidentally spark a forest fire while cooking the meat. And with the river right there, he will be able to clean up easier, rinsing the blood from his skin and from the knife.

 

After the near-disastrous trip downriver, Kirk has taken to carrying the entirety of his emergency supplies with him now, stashed in the emergency packs he keeps slung over one shoulder. It's a little bulky and irritating to carry, but he'd rather deal with a little annoyance than be caught without his gear again. So after he washes his hands in the river, he digs through the survival pack to find the pocket saw, the spare fishing line, and thermal blanket, and briefly ventures back into the treeline to find suitable branches to cut for making a tepee-style smoker.

 

He's never made one before, but he knows the theory from his studies, and it only takes a few tries before he manages to construct something similar to what he saw in the survival guides. Leo watches in puzzled fascination as he builds a fire with fresh green wood, and perks up in interest when he begins slicing the meat into thin strips, hanging them over the frame above the heavily smoking fire.

 

Again, it occurs to him that Starfleet is _not_ going to be happy about him influencing the native population. Most of what he's done in sight of the longsnout has been basic and primitive - survival techniques without much advanced technology in play - so in theory, it's something that Leo's people might eventually develop on their own, in time. Well. Maybe not the bow, unless they somehow find a way to adapt it to suit their octupedal species. But the Prime Directive doesn't tend to have a lot of wiggle room, even for such simple things, on the argument that it's a slippery slope.

 

At least _this_ is more understandable than the shitshow that was Nibiru. He hopes. This time, it isn't his fault. And his only other option is to let himself starve, and he knows precisely how much he wants to avoid that fate. Never again.

 

At least he doesn't have to worry about that report just yet.

 

For once, he's glad that Atalanta's days are longer than Earth's, because thirteen hours of daylight gives him the time to let the meat dry out well enough to last a week before spoiling. An hour before sunset, he and Leo trek back to the shelter that the longsnout has dug out beneath a broad-trunked tree about a half-mile from the river, and he uses the thermal blanket and paracord to bundle the smoked meat up out of reach of hungry scavengers.

 

It almost feels like he's finally holding his own here, not just scraping by from day to day. And as he and his alien companion settle in for the night, listening as the sounds of the night slowly creep into his awareness, a thought occurs to him.

 

"You know," he murmurs to Leo, "it's not fair that the Fucking Nightmare can just come around whenever it wants and scare the shit out of us. I say we stop cowering in this stupid hole in the ground and take the fight to it. What do you think?"


	20. Hour Two

The silence is horrifying.

 

Doctor McCoy can hardly bring himself to accept what the fuck is happening. First they thought that the captain was dead, then he was alive but in some kind of fucked up warped time bubble, and now there's nothing but radio silence. And while the biosensors are still transmitting data, there's been a shift in the bizarre signals. An increase in internal temperature, suddenly spiking out of nowhere, and a drop in blood pressure. And where his heart rate had been registering as somewhere around forty thousand beats per minute on average, now it's nearly doubled, indicating a constant, high cardiac load. Not the sort of thing that would result from a brief adrenaline spike, or any other kind of normal physical activity.

 

It is pure torture not to know _why_.

 

He learned a long time ago that the worst part about being a doctor is when you have no choice but to sit on the sidelines and do nothing, and it's a hundred times worse when Kirk is involved. He's seen it firsthand on countless occasions, and the worst moment of them all was the day that Scotty and the hazmat crew brought a lead-lined body bag into Sickbay, and he'd unzipped it to see Kirk's lifeless, waxen face. Too late to save him, too late to do anything but stare down at his best friend in the entire universe and feel his world shatter to pieces around him.

 

He'd gotten lucky, back then. They both had. Because there _was_ something he could do, in the end, and though it took weeks of rehabilitation to get Kirk back to full health, he _did_ heal. But during those long, terrible moments in Sickbay, McCoy learned in horrific detail what exactly that kind of helplessness feels like.

 

Its specter looms over him again now, as he waits, gripping the railing behind the command chair so tightly that his knuckles are bone-white. Chekov and Sulu are chattering about reentry vectors and turbulence and something about speed differentials, but he's a doctor, not a pilot, and he tunes them both out, unable to stop himself from mentally running through all the awful reasons why Kirk might have suddenly gone silent.

 

They have no idea what kind of resources he has down there. He might have run out of water, or food. He might be at the mercy of the elements, suffering exposure to the weather, or come down with some kind of illness. Maybe he ate the wrong plant, or had an allergic reaction to an unknown compound. Or fell off a cliff. Or... or...

 

He shudders as the possibilities go on, and on, and endless litany of doom in his head.

 

There are so many ways to die out here.

 

The minutes tick by, and McCoy dreads every moment. It could already be too late to help Kirk. And if it is, they'll never hear another word from him, never get confirmation unless they manage to send a shuttle down and recover the body. The biosensors continue to send their data, slowly moving back towards the accelerated benchmarks they'd shown before. But is that because his vitals are normalizing, or is it part of a steady decline past the norm?

 

The whole bridge feels like everyone is holding their breaths, even as Spock and Sulu and Chekov talk about math and orbital mechanics and simulations to run, but Uhura's voice suddenly cuts through the noise, and all other conversation stops. "I have him! He just started broadcasting again."

 

McCoy can't help but seek out the chronometer above the viewscreen. "It's been sixteen minutes since he stopped, so that's...?"

 

"Approximately five and a half days," Spock answers at once.

 

Five and a half _days_. As much of a relief as it is to hear that Kirk is doing okay enough to call up to the ship, such a long silence is incredibly worrying. And he dreads hearing what Kirk has to say, as much as he yearns to find out if his friend is all right. "Well, what're you waitin' for? Time's a-wasting. Let's hear it!"

 

And once again, Kirk's voice filters through the speakers. But it's a lot different from the earlier message, the one he apparently sent the day after the shuttle crashed. He sounds weak... tired. Exhausted, even. " _Kirk to_ Enterprise _. I, uh, think I missed a few check-ins. I don't actually even know what day it is..._ "

 

McCoy listens in concern as Kirk continues, rambling about some kind of native animal, getting injected with some kind of horrible toxin, and getting rescued by another native species. Named _Leo_ , apparently.

 

"Leo?" McCoy sputters, baffled and a little outraged. "What the hell is a longsnout?" _Oh my god, only_ Jim _would find some alien critter and give it a stupider version of_ my _name._

 

It doesn't hold his attention for long, though, because the reason for his long silence is of far greater concern. A paralytic venom, possibly psychotropic, something potent enough to take him out of commission for _days_. At least it sounds like he's gotten some kind of medical attention for it, but he sounds like he's still in pretty poor shape. And there's absolutely nothing that anyone on the _Enterprise_ can do to help him.

 

But the captain knows him all too well, because the next thing he says is, " _Bones, before you freak out, I'm fine_ ," and McCoy rolls his eyes a bit. Typical Kirk. Even _more_ typical of him as he redefines "fine" as including recovering from a nasty infection, and getting holes poked in him by stingers the size of _knives_. Stingers attached to critters big enough to cause a significant bite wound, at that. McCoy's fingers itch, wanting nothing more than to get Kirk safe on a biobed where he can treat him properly, so he can see for himself that the captain is okay.

 

There's a strange sound in the transmission, like something breathing loudly, and Kirk's voice perks up a little, becoming a little quieter as he leans away from his communicator's speaker. " _Hey, thanks. You wanna say hello to the folks back home?_ "

 

If he didn't know better, McCoy would say that Kirk's talking to a dog, because there's a rough bark in reply, deep enough that it sounds like it comes from something large. " _That was Leo, bringing me breakfast. My fishing stuff is all upriver somewhere with the rest of... how far away am I, anyway?_ " Another brief pause. " _I'm in no shape to walk anywhere yet. My leg's too weak for that, and my arm isn't doing great at letting me hold stuff either._ "

 

Muscle weakness... so either the paralytic part of the poison is still active, or it's eaten away at the tissue. He can fix that, once Kirk is back in Sickbay. But that sure doesn't help _now_ , and it doesn't sound like Kirk is near wherever he's been staying - a tree? - so he probably doesn't have access to his medical gear, and emergency medkits don't tend to come stocked with the right materials to regrow muscle tissue anyway.

 

" _So the plan for right now is to rest up as much as I can, try to regain my strength, so I can get back to camp. My friend here seems willing to hang around and help. It's nice not to be alone anymore._ " Kirk's voice wavers, and he cuts himself off abruptly. McCoy's heart aches in his chest, helpless to even just let his friend know that he's not alone, that _someone_ is listening to him. " _Anyway... breakfast is getting cold, so I'll check in again in a bit. I've been napping a lot so it might not be two hours. Sorry if I freaked you guys out when I went quiet. Kirk out._ "

 

"Jesus Christ," McCoy says, rubbing a hand over his face. This day is getting worse and worse by the _minute_. "Tell me you're close to getting him out of there."

 

"The simulations aren't promising," Sulu says, but there's still a narrow, focused look on his face as he glances over his shoulder at the doctor. "The angle doesn't seem to matter. Entering an area of space with a speed differential of that magnitude causes irrecoverable turbulence, just like what happened to _Cassini_. Any shuttle we send down to get him is going to crash too."

 

McCoy whirls to face Spock, his stomach twisting in desperation and despair. "Spock, there's gotta be a way," he says, a plea for the Vulcan to do something, _anything_ to fix this. "We can't just leave him down there. He'll die."

 

"I have no intention of abandoning the captain," Spock answers, his face and voice as placidly calm as it usually is. "We have not yet taken all variables into account in the simulations. There may yet be a solution we have not considered. Until such time as that solution is found, we will continue to strive for it."

 

It's not the answer that McCoy wants to hear. He wants to hear that of course they've already figured it out, that they're going to go down and get Kirk _right the fuck now_ , that in the next fifteen minutes he can have the captain tucked safely away in Sickbay. But goddammit, he knows Spock can't give him that answer. And the Vulcan hasn't given up on him either.

 

"Lieutenant Uhura," Spock says, turning towards the back of the bridge, "it is logical to assume that the captain did not receive our transmission. Please resend the pre-recorded signal again, and relay any response."

 

"Aye, sir." This time, when she transmits the message down to the planet, she only pauses for a few seconds before looking over her shoulder at the rest of the bridge crew, a smile on her face. "Acknowledgment received. Slowing it down now." Her fingers fly across the controls, and though she's working as quickly as possible, never in his life has McCoy felt so _impatient_.

 

But shortly after, Kirk's voice again fills the bridge, this time sounding more rested and coherent, and even knowing the reason for the rapid change, McCoy is still having a hard time wrapping his brain around it. " _Kirk to_ _Enterprise_ _, oh my_ _god_ _it is so great to hear your voice Spock! I don't know what took you guys so long but to be perfectly honest, I don't care right now. You can tell me all about it when I get back._ " He rambles on for a bit, talking about inadequate emergency supplies and being shirtless and wanting a sandwich, but McCoy drinks in every word of it, trying to get a real sense of how his friend and captain is doing.

 

He sounds stronger than he did a few minutes ago, so at least he's not getting worse. But the fact that he actually _asked_ for medical advice is concerning. _I guess even Jim can see that he needs all the help he can get._

 

And as soon as the transmission ends, McCoy turns to Uhura. "I want to send him the next message. If that's okay," he adds belatedly, shooting Spock a look that says in no uncertain terms that he'd damn well better allow it.

 

Spock inclines his head slightly. "It is a logical use of our time," he agrees. "Captain Kirk did specifically request your expertise in this matter, and I must assist Lieutenant Sulu in searching for a viable re-entry vector."

 

Of course, once Uhura has the recording equipment set up for him to use, he can't think of a damn thing to say, which makes him all the more flustered. He can't just take a step back and deliver a cold, clinical medical opinion on Kirk's self-treatment. Not when it's his _friend_ down on that God-forsaken planet, when he's dealing with any number of awful dangers that might take him out of commission again - or worse.

 

Finally, he just hits the switch to record, and says the first thing that comes to mind. "Jim, don't you ever do that to me again. I swear to God, every single gray hair I have has your name on it..."

 

* * *

 

Now that they have two-way communication between the ship and Captain Kirk, it should be less stressful for everyone, right?

 

Of course not.

 

It's not like the bridge is in chaos or anything. They're Starfleet; they're too well-trained to collectively panic at being faced with an unprecedented problem. But there's a noticeable tension on the bridge, particularly centered around the helm, as Spock, Sulu, and Chekov collaborate on running simulated shuttle trajectories through the ship's computer. Nearly the entire main viewscreen is taken up by a scientific mishmash of atmospheric re-entry vectors and shuttle stress limit calculations, save for the side that still displays a constant stream of Kirk's vital signs, his body temperature and blood pressure now settled firmly in the normal range.

 

And at the back of the bridge, McCoy watches over Uhura's shoulder at the incoming list of transmissions, helpless to do anything but watch.

 

Now that Kirk knows they're paying attention, he's not calling quite as much, sending a little blip of a signal about every minute and a half. It's still too quick for them to decode and listen to every transmission before he sends another one. But they can listen to some, and Uhura seems to know that the doctor _needs_ to hear the captain's voice, so he hands him an extra earpiece and together, they listen to Kirk's messages.

 

It wouldn't be terribly riveting stuff, if not for the circumstances. The captain tends to ramble on a bit, in most messages, chattering away about his plans for the day, and then shortly after, what he actually managed to achieve. There's lots of hiking involved, and his messages swing rapidly back and forth between exhaustion and rested determination, which only serves to drive the incredibly impatient point home that Kirk is literally living his life in fast forward, stuck on a primitive planet without even the most basic creature comforts available to him.

 

And as the minutes tick away with no word on a workable rescue plan, the planet spins rapidly below, carrying the captain with it.


	21. Day Forty-Five

Leo doesn't understand what he's doing, at least at first.

 

The longsnout watches in mild bewilderment as he spends most of an entire day digging a second burrow only a few feet away from the one they have been using, angled in the opposite direction, a little wider than would be considered safe. It's hard work, and the entrenching tool isn't made for a project of this scale, but James T. Kirk has never been someone to let a little something like that discourage him.

 

Whether or not Leo realizes _why_ he's doing what he's doing, it must realize he's not going to stop, and joins in after an hour to help haul a truly backbreaking amount of dirt out of the hole. The underground tunnel he's making us large enough for both of them to work shoulder to shoulder, and the longsnout jolts in surprise when the interior gets dark enough that Kirk has to turn on the headlamp to illuminate their surroundings. It takes until it's nearly nightfall before the captain is satisfied with the second burrow, Leo looking on in puzzlement as they retreat to the much safer, smaller shelter underneath the roots of the tree.

 

The smoked featherfiend meat lasts them several days before they have to go on another hunt, bagging only one of the creatures. But this time Kirk is careful to leave the tail of the predator intact until he can properly extract the venom sac, extremely careful not to accidentally stab himself with the stinger or puncture the squishy organ with the knife, tying off the open end with a small piece of fishing line.

 

Leo is _incredibly_ concerned about this strange new behavior of his, crooning worriedly as he handles the most dangerous part of their kill. "Don't worry," Kirk tells his companion, flashing a small smile. "I know better than to get any of this on myself, and we need it if we're gonna stand a chance taking down that thing." The longsnout still looks skeptical, and does that odd sneezing thing again after cautiously sniffing at it, giving the venom sac a wide berth as it approaches the carcass to dig in for lunch.

 

True understanding doesn't seem to strike his alien companion until late that afternoon, when Kirk returns to the burrow with an armful of sharpened sticks, part of his dismantled defense system from when he still slept up in the tree. Some of the sharp tips are still stained black from the Fucking Nightmare's blood, and he moves extremely carefully as he reopens the featherfiend venom sac, dipping the ends in the fluid within.

 

Leo abruptly sits up on its hind two pairs of legs and _whuffs_ in surprise, all four eyes open wide. Kirk smiles at it, only glancing up momentarily from his work, so he doesn't accidentally poison himself by jabbing himself when he's not paying attention. "Yeah, that's right," he says. "That thing bleeds, and apparently it's willing to hurt themselves to get at its prey. Judging by how badly this stuff messed _me_ up, it's got to at least do _something_ to it."

 

But he also knows all too well that the trap might not work. That the Fucking Nightmare might not go for the bait, or that a few scratches from poisoned stakes won't do the job. Or worse, that the horrific creature might sniff them out and invade the real shelter, instead of the decoy.

 

So Kirk takes both of his spears, and coats the sharp ends in the featherfiend venom too. To his mild surprise, Leo picks up one of them in its right two forepaws, clutching it to its belly, the poisoned end held carefully away from its body, and the longsnout makes a rumbling noise in its throat. Nor a purr of satisfaction, but a _growl_ , the same kind he's heard it use when they are out hunting together.

 

And he smiles slightly, giving a nod as he takes up the other spear. "Yeah. Me too. Come on... we've only got about an hour to bury the stakes and bait the trap. Let's get started."

 

* * *

 

Now that the longsnout has realized what all Kirk's preparation has been for, Leo makes itself very useful. It plants a fairly large slab of the fresh featherfiend meat at the bottom of the false burrow, deliberately trailing blue blood like an arrow leading down to the bait, its metallic stench noticeable even to the captain's weaker human senses. And once the meat is in place, they set to burying the stakes. In the floor, the walls, the ceiling, all angled to jab at anyone trying to squeeze into the confined space, and they both have to work carefully to avoid poking themselves or each other with the poisoned stakes.

 

Working outward from the deeper part of the false burrow, Leo uses a forepaw to dig out each hole before daintily plucking a stake from Kirk's hand, placing it inside and packing the earth around the base so that only the dangerous point remains, one by one. And when twilight descends upon Atalanta, the false burrow bristles with barely-visible points like teeth, a great gaping mouth waiting to devour its prey.

 

But there's one thing yet to do before they retreat to the safety of the real burrow. Though he has no proof, Kirk suspects that it was the slimy coat of mud that had prevented the Fucking Nightmare from sniffing them out, that day in the rain. It's not raining now, but the nearby river offers another way to duplicate those same circumstances and cover their scent.

 

Kirk and Leo both briefly dunk themselves in the river, and the longsnout claws up the earth near the riverbank enough for them to smear it on their bodies. Blue and green scale and tanned skin alike vanish under a layer of dark brown mud, like painting themselves for battle, and Leo gives him the hunting growl again. "I'm ready too," Kirk agrees, his heart starting to pound on his chest, fear and anticipation both at war within him.

 

The longsnout slips into the real burrow first, and Kirk carefully backs his way in, pulling the poisoned spears in after him. The headlamp is strapped to his forehead, deactivated and dark, and he carefully hands the second spear to Leo once they are side by side, careful not to touch the dangerous point.

 

And then they wait.

 

The sun sets fully, the lilac sky dimming to purple, then to black, and the faint pinpricks of light peek out through the clear void of space. The sounds of the planet's night life begin to take over, creatures calling for mates or luring in prey, and Kirk listens intently for that sinister, tell-tale hiss.

 

Hours pass.

 

It's hard to stay unerringly alert for so long, particularly when his body is still tired out from yet another day's hard work. Leo must be having the same problem, because every now and then, the warm body pressed up against his side shudders a little in a full body shake. Kirk blinks hard, stifling a yawn as the listens to the gentle rustle of wind in the trees. It's a peaceful night by all accounts, save for the faint, occasional cloying whiff of drying blood.

 

He doesn't realize that he's dozing off until Leo's snout bumps against his shoulder, jolting him fully awake. Adrenaline floods his tired body, erasing exhaustion as he snaps alert, and the soft sound of multiple footfalls finally register for what they are.

 

_It's here._

 

Gripping his spear tightly, Kirk peers up at the burrow's exit. The night is dark, concealing any sign of life, and he doesn't dare move closer to get a better look, with or without the headlamp. But then the blackness _moves_ , revealing distant stars beyond a dark shape, and he suddenly realizes that the Fucking Nightmare is standing directly over the burrow, blocking the view with its massive bony body.

 

A faint hiss drifts down to his ears, and Leo tenses at his side, its own spear clenched tightly in its forepaws. And together they wait, barely breathing, waiting in anticipation to see if the predator will take the bait... or if it will home in on living, breathing prey.

 

_Scrape._

 

The horrific creature above abruptly hisses more loudly, menacing, _angry_. Heavier footsteps lurch back, too many legs scrabbling in the dirt, and something foul-smelling and thick drops down at the entrance of the burrow. Kirk squints into the darkness, unable to tell if the trap worked, if the Fucking Nightmare at least scratched itself on the poisoned spikes. The light is too dim to see details like that. But what he _can_ see gets his attention.

 

The underside of the Fucking Nightmare looks oddly soft and bumpy, unprotected by the bony plates that sit just beneath its awful skin, normally guarded by its multiple long legs. He doesn't remember seeing such an obvious vulnerability before, but then, he hasn't seen one from beneath before either. Or maybe it's a new development... Kirk shudders at the thought that this terrible creature might be preparing to reproduce, to fill the forest with dozens of little Fucking Nightmares that won't have any trouble scrabbling into the underground burrow, overwhelming its occupants with sheer numbers.

 

That can't happen. And they may never get a better chance, a better shot at preventing such a horror.

 

He lunges forward and upward, thrusting the spear up at the vulnerable underside of the Fucking Nightmare. A horrible scream splits the night, and the spear is ripped from his hands as the predator thrashes away. A second spear jabs up at it before it can recoil out of reach, propelled by powerful forepaws, and the monster screeches anew, its eldritch voice one of agony and rage.

 

The foul smell fills the burrow, sticky wetness gushing down the slope of the tunnel and splashing onto his face and chest, the bitter filth on his lips making his stomach roll with nausea. He retches, gagging and coughing and spitting, unable to clear the taste of death itself from his mouth.

 

Clawed paws grab him and drag him deeper into the burrow as long spindly legs reach inside, angrily thrashing, trying to wound or kill anything in reach. He reaches up with slicked hands and fumbles for the switch to activate the headlamp, abruptly flooding the burrow and its exit tunnel in bright light.

 

It illuminates a scene of horror.

 

Thick black ichor runs down into the burrow like a river, darkening the dirt and coating Kirk's upper body like ink or crude oil, reeking and disgustingly hot. Two dark, multi-jointed legs flail at the entrance of the burrow, a horrible scream emitting from a fanged mouth just behind them, and _way too many eyes_ glint in the light of the headlamp, quickly vanishing as the monster recoils from the light. Its terrible wailing increases in pitch and anger, and it starts clawing at the earth, gradually forcing its way into the entryway, violently scraping away at the earth that separates its gleaming fangs from its intended prey.

 

Kirk grabs for the entrenching tool, its sharpened edge the only other useful weapon he has left, and waits as death embodied slowly approaches, one scrabbling swipe at a time. At his side, Leo bristles and brandishes its foreclaws, trembling slightly in fear yet still defiant, and it bares its teeth and growls.

 

But the Fucking Nightmare only makes it two more feet into the burrow before its furious digging slows, its movements becoming sluggish and confused. Angry screams taper off into an eerie moan, and one claw rakes the dirt in front of Kirk before there's a loud _thump_ , and then those awful legs stop moving altogether, save for small twitches like death throes.

 

Black ooze continues to trickle down from the monster, its unmoving body completely filling the exit of the burrow.

 

Sealing them inside, in the darkness beneath the earth.


	22. Day Forty-Six

Unsurprisingly, Kirk doesn’t get much sleep after that.

 

With the enormous corpse of the Fucking Nightmare wedged into the exit tunnel, blocking the only way in or out of the burrow, there's no chance that anything else is going to attack them in the night. And it isn't safe to seek a way out just yet, still held in the clutches of darkness. But it's also nearly impossible to rest when he's still covered in sticky black ichor, the cruel fangs of the Fucking Nightmare only feet away, and the nauseating taste of that monster's blood still lingers on his tongue, haunting him in the dark.

 

But dawn does come eventually.

 

Leo stirs, and carefully sets to digging an alternate route up, bypassing the side of the massive corpse. The longsnout purrs an apology as clawfuls of dirt cascade onto the human, unavoidable in the cramped confines of the fore-spattered shelter, and the grit sticks to the still-tacky black gunk on his skin. Kirk coughs, shutting his eyes and turning away in a mostly futile attempt to keep the dirt out of his face. Grasping paws close around his upper arms and gently haul him out into fresh air, and a soothing croon emanates from his alien companion as it nudges him to his feet.

 

The river isn't far, and Kirk manages to pry open one eye, the other all but sealed shut with black blood and dirt. With one hand on Leo's back, he limps towards the sound of rushing water, and plunges in without a second thought.

 

This early in the morning, the water is almost shockingly cold, and he sputters a little as he submerges, shivering. But he doesn't hesitate for long, ducking back under the surface to thoroughly wet his hair and scruffy beard, to scrub away the gunk from his eyelids so he can see clearly again. Great ugly dark clouds bloom in the current, slowly sweeping away downriver to be replaced with a constant flow of clean water. And never in his entire life has he wished for soap as badly as he does now. No matter how hard he scrubs away at the tacky goop coating his arms and face and chest, he still doesn't feel clean. His hair and beard are matted with the thick dark blood and dirt, pinching almost painfully tight against his scalp and chin, and he has to slowly work out the knots with fingernails that are getting just a little longer than he likes, wincing whenever he pulls too hard.

 

In contrast, Leo has a much easier time getting clean. Smooth scales are much quicker to rinse, and the longsnout dives under the surface of the cold water more than once to rub itself against the rocks at the river bottom, shedding the sticky black layer in stages. When it emerges to dry itself in the weak morning sunshine, its vibrant blue and green hide is stained several shades darker by the lingering residue of the Fucking Nightmare's blood.

 

Kirk holds out his own arms in front of himself, turning them over to get a good look all around. Black stains still cling to the creases of his palms and knuckles, his skin a piebald, discolored pattern of dark gray and ordinary tanned flesh where the blood didn't soak in. The water isn't quite placid enough to see his own reflection, but he imagines his hair and beard are probably much the same, dyed black where the thick gunk dried overnight.

 

"Great," he mutters, rubbing futilely at the dark stains on his chest. "This had better wear off eventually."

 

But while he grumbles in annoyance, Leo thrums in satisfaction, purring loudly as it admires the changed hues in its hide. He supposes he can't really blame it. As absolutely revolting as it is to still see the effects of practically bathing in that stinking, cloying ichor, they managed to take down a Fucking Nightmare practically unscathed. It's a thought that makes him shake his head a little in mild disbelief. The creature that has haunted his nightmares for weeks is _dead_. Even if it's not the only one out there, it is still a massive weight off his chest to know that they _can_ be killed.

 

And judging by the pleased bark of his alien companion, Leo agrees completely.

 

Kirk sloshes out of the river, shivering a bit from the chill of the water, but he's as clean as he's going to get, and he starts heading back towards the burrow to retrieve his gear. It's fairly obvious that they won't be able to use the same shelter again, even if there was a way to move the dead Fucking Nightmare out of the entryway.

 

In the daylight, the corpse of the monster looks no less horrifying, half hidden in the earth. Black gunk is spattered everywhere, along with a slimy heap of something round, about the size of baseballs, that have fallen out of the creature's punctured underbelly. And Kirk is very, _very_ glad that there are no obvious signs of life from the gelatinous eggs, grimacing at the mental image of a swarm of the little fuckers in miniature.

 

It's a little hard to tell, with so much black gore drying on black skin, but it does appear as though there are small punctures and scrapes dotting its front half, at about the right angle to be from the poisoned stakes hidden in the false burrow. _No wonder it sounded so pissed._

 

Despite knowing that it's dead, it's still unnerving to turn his back on the hulking corpse as he slides into the bypass tunnel feet-first, fishing for the straps of the survival gear with bare toes as quickly as he can, unable to shake the irrational fear that the Fucking Nightmare will suddenly lurch to life and sink those razor-sharp fangs into him.

 

His toes find the rough canvas of the pack and the taut fishing line attached to his field bow, and he loops the strap around his ankle and curls his toes around the bowstring, yanking them both up with him as he quickly crawls out of the tunnel. Movement in the corner of his eye makes his heart leap into his throat, and he nearly drops the gear as he turns to face the potential threat.

 

But it's only Leo, the longsnout's dark-dyed hide making it look more threatening at first glance, and it cautiously slinks closer to the massive black heap of dead monster, the ridge along his scaly friend's back raised to its full height in a threat display. But the corpse doesn't move, _thank God_ , and Leo barks at Kirk to get his attention, poking at the monster's legs with one forepaw.

 

He doesn't really want to get anywhere _near_ that thing, but weeks of companionship have fostered a sort of bond between himself and the young longsnout. If it wants him to come over, he trusts it to have a good reason. So he slings the emergency supplies and bow across his back, and limps over to join his alien friend. "What's up?"

 

Leo holds up a single claw on one of its front forepaws, and uses it to trace a line across the base of the Fucking Nightmare's leg in the most blatantly obvious gesture he's seen it use to date. Of course... the knife must seem like a single, detachable claw from the longsnout's perspective. And it has no doubt noticed that the blade is a hell of a lot sharper than its own claws. So it's fairly clear that it wants him to cut off the monster's foot. What's much less obvious is _why_.

 

He gives Leo a questioning look, and decides to make an attempt at duplicating the same inquisitive _chirrup_ that the longsnout uses when it's curious. It's a little harder than it sounds, and Leo blinks all four eyes in surprise and lets out a _hraa-hraa_ in response. "Hey, don't laugh, it's my first try," Kirk protests, but he's smiling a little anyway.

 

Leo hums a little, sounding amused, but clicks its claws against the single massive claw at the end of the corpse's spider-like leg. "You want to take a trophy?" Kirk guesses. That doesn't seem quite right. From what he's seen, the longsnouts don't decorate their bodies. And if the rest of its people live in burrows too, he doubts there is much focus on collecting physical mementoes. Where would they keep such things?

 

But he can't think of any other potential reasons. Either way, he sets to work, slicing into that taut leathery skin. The corpse is old and cooled enough that it doesn't actively bleed, but it's like cutting into a tough-skinned fruit, the blade straining to penetrate until it suddenly plunges into sludgy gelatinous goop beneath the surface. Kirk makes a face and tries to breathe through his mouth, the stench no more tolerable now than it was when it was alive, and he finds the cartilage anchoring the claw to solid bone. It takes him a few tries to properly insert the knife point in the proper place to lever it free, pulling the Fucking Nightmare's claw free with a sickening, wet squelch.

 

Leo sneezes and shakes its head, but accepts the huge claw in one of its forepaws. To Kirk's mild surprise and puzzlement, the longsnout isn't satisfied, tapping its claws on yet another of the corpse's legs.

 

"This is starting to get a little weird, Leo," Kirk tells his companion, but does as he's bid, prying another claw free. But this time, Leo refuses to take it, instead nosing its snout at the bottom of the survival pack on Kirk's back. "You want me to carry this one?" he asks, miming putting the claw inside the battered pack.

 

Leo purrs in approval, its whip-like tail practically wagging, or at least lashing from side to side in excitement. Of course, he has no idea _why_ this is so important to his alien friend, but it's not going to hurt anything to comply, so he stashes the cruel claw alongside the rest of his gear. Leo has no such convenient way to carry its own trophy from their kill, but it has seven other paws to spare for walking or manipulating objects, so it's not as hindered by simply carrying its prize openly.

 

At least the longsnout seems content with only taking two of the claws, gladly leaving the corpse behind as it accompanies Kirk back to the river.

 

He cleans the knife as best he can, rinsing off the gooey congealed ichor from the blade and from his hands. They're both still darkly stained, but at least the tacky feeling of the blood is gone, and he makes a mental note to use his next campfire to sterilize the blade in the flames before he uses it on anything else.

 

While he cleans up, Leo works on getting breakfast, poised in the shallows until the little silver fish swim close enough to impale on its claws. Kirk isn't terribly hungry, but he does manage to choke one down; even the strong fishy flavor isn't enough to erase the revolting taste of the monster's blood still lingering in his mouth, and he winces a little as his stomach rumbles in discomfort, refusing a second fish for fear it'll come back up. "I'll eat more later," he says in response to the longsnout's worried croon. "Trust me, it's not happening right now. I'll be okay."

 

His refusal is clear enough to be understood, despite the lack of a common language, but Leo still looks mildly perturbed as it finishes off the rest of the morning's catch, and gets to its feet.

 

Kirk shoulders his pack, ready for another hike along the riverbank in search of a new place to dig out a shelter. It's a familiar routine, just like those days they spent traveling upriver after he'd been poisoned. Except this time, he has no goal in mind, no particular place he's trying to return to. So he gestures for the longsnout to take point, figuring his scaly companion will know better than him what location would be ideal.

 

Leo _whuffs_ , but rather than move along the shore, the longsnout begins to head out into the forest. It turns its head, glancing over its shoulder to make sure he's following, and barks in encouragement, following it up with a _ruu-ruu-ruu_. It looks like it has a destination in mind, not just wandering. Maybe heading back to its people at last, or maybe it knows of a better haven than along the shores of the river.

 

Either way, wherever it's going, it definitely wants him to come along.

 

And it's not like he has anything better to do. "All right," Kirk agrees, running a hand through his unkempt hair. "Daylight's burning."

 

He holds the bow at the ready, and follows the longsnout into the woods.


	23. Day Forty-Eight

After spending the vast, _vast_ majority of his time on Atalanta near the river, it's a little weird to be hiking away from it. Flowing water means relatively drinkable water, fish to catch, and course clean water for rinsing himself clean of the inevitable accumulation of sweat and dirt after spending yet another night underground. But he's sleeping a little easier, now that the Fucking Nightmare is dead.

 

Kirk has never been a biologist, obviously, but he's picked up a few things from overseeing a ship full of scientists for a couple of years. He hasn't seen any other large species in the forest besides the longsnouts, which means that the Fucking Nightmares probably rely on catching lots and lots of littler prey for the majority of their meals. And for a creature that big, it'd be unfeasible for it to share territory with many others of its own kind, otherwise they'd eat all the food in short order. Maybe a mate, if anything.

 

It's not nearly enough evidence for him to assume that he's _safe_ , of course. He knows better than that. But so far, he's seen no sign of a second monster lurking in the forest at night.

 

And it's with a much more rested attitude that he follows Leo further into the forest, still limping a little on his weaker knee. Despite the necessarily awkward gait, they're still making great time, moving quite a bit faster than he was able to manage during the long trek upriver, all those days ago. And his longsnout friend is very understanding and patient whenever he stops to harvest a handful of carrot-nuts or edible leaves on the way, though it never partakes.

 

It's late morning, two days after leaving the bountiful banks of the river, and the last of the smoked featherfiend meat is finally gone. Kirk sits on a fallen tree, chewing on a handful of bland leaves as he watches Leo sniff around the rotted side of the log, and he flips open his communicator for his first call of the day. He hasn't had a message from the _Enterprise_ for almost a week, but it's a lot shorter for them - twenty minutes, maybe - so he's not terribly worried about it. They'd let him know if something had happened, and Uhura did ask him to continue making daily check-ins.

 

It's a little easier, now that he knows they're listening.

 

"Good morning, _Enterprise_. I still don't know where Leo's taking me, but we're making good progress anyway. I hope we're heading for a water source soon; I've been rationing what I've got in my canteen, but I'm almost out. At least everything tastes okay again and I don't feel like I'm gonna hurl every time I eat anymore."

 

He looks down at Leo, whose head is cocked to the side slightly as if listening to something, and careful claws pierce the soft, rotted wood, which crumbles underneath the pressure. "Leo seems to be either entirely carnivorous, or else it just doesn't eat the same kind of vegetation I can, so I haven't been eating any of the meat, but we ran out of that last night too. It's going to be hard to hunt without knowing the best places to set up an ambush; we might have to resort to catching stinger-bugs again. I hope Leo will have better luck not getting stung than I did."

 

The longsnout lets out a pleased rumble, though Kirk can't tell if it's related to whatever it's doing with the rotted wood, or if it recognizes that he's talking about it. It wouldn't surprise him if his alien friend has picked up on the repetition of certain words when he speaks to it - its name being the most frequent, although "I'm okay" is an annoyingly close second.

 

"Anyway," he continues to the open comm line, "I've been feeling a little better these past few days. I don't know if it's just because I'm getting more sleep or if it's because I've got more variety in my diet, but it doesn't really matter either way. Bones, I know you're just itching to sit my ass down in Sickbay and to be totally honest, I wouldn't even object this time. I miss you. I miss all of you."

 

He has to stop talking for a moment before his voice has a chance to break, before he betrays just how much he misses _home_ and all the people in it. Kirk closes his eyes, and swallows a few times before he can trust himself to speak. "I'm really looking forward to getting off this planet, anytime you guys are ready. I know you'll come up with something sooner or later. Kirk out."

 

He snaps the communicator shut and clips it to his belt, the only undamaged piece of clothing he has to his name anymore. Even his Starfleet-issue boots have begun to develop tears in the synthleather from constant rough use, and the less said about the fraying edges of his pants, the better. Besides the fact that it's missing one arm, his gold uniform shirt is mostly fine, but somehow the idea of tromping around in a forest full of things that would love to eat him while wearing bright yellow seems like a tactically stupid idea, to say the least.

 

At least the weather has been pleasantly mild lately.

 

And much as his clothes are showing the signs of too much abuse, his body is following suit. He didn't lie on the comm; he really has felt better these past few days, to a degree. He feels a little more focused, some of his energy restored, and psychologically it's also a relief to know that the Fucking Nightmare is dead, and it doesn't really matter if it was the only one or not. Wherever his skin isn't stained unnatural gray by the monster's blood, he's also sporting a healthy tan over lean muscle.

 

But his knee doesn't seem to be getting better anymore, still weak enough that he has to walk with the same limping gait, and every day, the sight of the dark, barely healed scars on his body remind him of the consequences of relaxing his guard, even if only for a moment. His increased energy levels, while encouraging, are only a small drop in the bucket of a growing bone-deep fatigue, and joining the rest of his muscle aches is a low-level headache that nearly always makes itself known as a dull throbbing in his head. And while Bones has been telling him for about a year now that he should probably consider losing a few pounds, he's pretty sure he's gone a bit past what the doctor had in mind, to the point where he's going to have to cut a new notch in his belt soon.

 

He's distracted from his thoughts as Leo lets out a loud, satisfied purr, its claws peeling away the soft wood in fibrous chunks to reveal a group of fat white squirming larvae, each one the size of a human thumb. The longsnout snares them with its tongue, one at a time, snapping them up and rumbling in its throat.

 

"You couldn't have let me know about these sooner?" Kirk asks, a little amused. But he's not at a point where he needs to partake, not yet anyway. Not without at least cooking the things first. And while he can forage for vegetation, Leo needs the meat more than he does. "Nah, I'm good," he says, when his alien friend _chirrups_ a question. "Knock yourself out, buddy."

 

* * *

 

They walk for another five hours, the terrain slowly becoming rockier and rockier, the ground sometimes sloping upward at a steeper angle, and occasionally requiring them to take the long way around a sharp drop-off. The trees begin to thin out, replaced by more of the bizarre giant mushrooms instead, and thick scrubby bushes he hasn't seen before.

 

And as evening approaches, Kirk begins to get nervous.

 

Leo hasn't faltered from its course, confidently leading him in one consistent direction. It's fairly clear that his scaly companion has a destination in mind. But as talented as the longsnout is, it can't tunnel through rock. And the longer they travel, the shallower the dirt must be, a thin layer over large slabs of stone. And while the sun sinks lower in the sky, Leo is not making any moves to search for a good shelter for the night.

 

"Hey Leo," he calls out as they summit yet another rocky hill, the absence of taller trees giving him a clear view of the sky as lilac shifts to a deeper purple, and the gleaming speck in the heavens descends towards the horizon with the sun. "Shouldn't we stop soon? We've got to find a spot to start digging."

 

Leo thrums a little, not turning to face him, and it moves its head like it's looking for something. It cranes its neck back and lets out a cry unlike any that he's heard it make before, a sort of growling howl.

 

And it's answered by a much deeper voice, howling right back.

 

Kirk jumps at the suddenness of it, heart pounding, and he resists the urge to raise the bow and ready an arrow to face the threat. As unexpected as it is to come across another creature all the way out here, that call belonged to another longsnout. And it seems rude to greet his companion's family with weapons drawn, to say the least.

 

The shadows move, and three large shapes melt out of the underbrush, bigger than Leo, but striped with the same green and blue camouflage. Two of them have the same ridge down their backs as his young friend, and the third has a row of bony protrusions instead. Leo sits back on its haunches, raising its front set of forepaws in some sort of greeting, quietly crooning _ruu-ruu-ruu_ , but all three of them each have at least one pair of eyes fixed on Kirk.

 

 _When in Rome..._ Kirk slowly raises his empty hands, imitating Leo's gesture, and lowers himself to the ground. He can't quite make the same sound as the longsnout call for all-clear, but he gives it a shot, and the three sentries rear back in startled surprise, barking and growling like a pack of dogs.

 

Leo barks right back at them, a complex series of purrs and yowls that he can't follow, and slowly... gradually... the sentry longsnouts turn their attention towards the young one, and start casting side glances at Kirk. He's become accustomed to Leo's body language over the last few weeks, and he recognizes some of that in the newcomers now, expressions of skepticism and caution. But when his companion unfurls its forepaw to reveal the claw of the Fucking Nightmare, that all changes.

 

Disbelief. Astonishment. Excitement.

 

The sentries pad closer to sniff at the claw, recoiling as the still-potent stench of the nocturnal predator no doubt overwhelms their senses. Leo snaps out a rumbling bark, and casts a significant look back at Kirk.

 

It's not hard to figure out what it wants him to do.

 

The captain shifts the pack around so he can reach inside, fingers probing around for his own claw, and his hand closes around that creepily slick weapon, pulling it free and presenting it to the challengers. They react even more strongly to his trophy than Leo's, clearly reconsidering their initial impression of him. And when Leo rumbles and turns its back to better show off the dark stains on its hide, Kirk follows its lead, baring his forearms more prominently so they can see that he, too, is marked by the creature's blood.

 

The adults lower their voices, huddling together and clearly discussing what the fuck to do with the two of them. Leo sits patiently, quietly, and bumps its head against Kirk's arm in a gesture of reassurance. He smiles slightly in response, trying to hide his nervousness.

 

It's one thing to accidentally show off advanced technology to a single native, even when he hadn't realized at the time that Leo was sapient. But now that they're meeting up with the rest of the longsnouts... everything he's carrying is beyond their level of technology. Not to mention his own existence is outside of their knowledge, quite possibly the only biped - and the only mammal, for that matter - on the surface of the planet.

 

But it's beyond too late to begin worrying about that now. The Prime Directive was violated weeks ago, long before he ever knew it. All he can do now is damage control.

 

The sentries must have come to some kind of an agreement, because they all _whuff_ nearly in unison. Two of them disappear into the undergrowth, vanishing like they were never there. The third barks a command, and Leo gets to its feet, following its lead towards a nearby sheer cliff that rises up ahead of them.

 

And Kirk can do nothing but follow, the claw of the Fucking Nightmare still clenched in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Work has gotten busy and cut into my writing time so I may not be able to upload a chapter tomorrow and/or daily for a couple of days. Just a heads up. :)


	24. Day Forty-Nine

Once he starts thinking about it, Kirk isn't sure what exactly he expected to see at the longsnout settlement. Not anything resembling real buildings, of course; structures like that would be little defense against hostiles like the Fucking Nightmare. Perhaps an elaborate series of interconnected burrows, like a giant ant farm or something. Something they could dig out themselves, under their own power.

 

As it turns out, the longsnouts live in _caves_.

 

The entry tunnel is well-hidden at the base of the steep cliff, a narrow aperture barely big enough to fit an adult longsnout crawling on its belly, and scrubby bushes around the entrance conceal it further, also providing a convenient place for a sentry to lurk in hiding, ready to call out in warning at an enemy's approach. It's a perfect shelter to protect against the nocturnal predators of this world, a veritable fortress, impossible to dig out, with a defensible chokepoint.

 

The sentry longsnout pulls the bushes aside with one forepaw, and gestures towards the entrance with another. It does not look like it's going to take no for an answer, and Leo doesn't hesitate to slip inside, hunkering down to slink through the opening.

 

Kirk fights down a twist of anxiety in the pit of his stomach as he follows, crawling headfirst into the claustrophobically small tunnel. He's not usually one to be frightened by tight spaces, but he is also uncomfortable aware that there are millions of tons of rock over his head, and after spending three years in San Francisco, the word _earthquake_ keeps rattling around in his head like a warning klaxon, unbidden. But he knows it's mostly an irrational fear; he hasn't seen any indication that this part of the planet is dangerously tectonically active, and this tunnel looks old enough that it's incredibly improbable that anything's going to happen to destroy it anytime soon. And his other option is to spend the night out in the open, alone. _Fuck that._ So he pushes away the fear, and descends into the darkness.

 

With his own body blocking what little light is coming through the entrance, it becomes _very_ dark, very quickly. The rock under his chest and palms is worn smooth from thousands upon thousands of soft belly scales sliding over it through the years, giving him a tactile path to follow in the wake of his companion. Leo rumbles encouragingly, and the sound soon begins to echo a little off more distant walls as the space opens up around him. He can hear other sounds, too: the clicking of claws on stone, _whuffs_ and purrs in the dozens, large forms shifting around as if to find a more comfortable resting position.

 

It's nearly pitch black, but Kirk doesn't dare fumble for the headlamp. Both to minimize what influence he's already had on the local population, and because he doesn't want to scare the shit out of what sounds like a _lot_ of longsnouts.

 

He hesitates until familiar foreclaws close around his upper arm, gently pulling him deeper inside. He brushes up against warm smooth scales - not Leo's - and a ripple of uneasy growls echo across the cavern until an unfamiliar voice calls _ruu-ruu-ruu_ , vouching for his presence.

 

The dark cave is a little cold, but it isn't a problem as Kirk finds himself all but sandwiched between two warm bodies, and the one at his right purrs familiarly, a narrow head resting on his chest. Leo. The other moves a little, adjusting to his presence, but settles down easily enough, only grumbling a complaint when he accidentally bumps it with the survival pack as he shifts it under his head to serve as a pillow, protecting his head from the awful discomfort of resting on bare stone.

 

_Guess everything else is going to have to wait until morning._

 

He closes his eyes against the darkness, a lone human in a sea of aliens, cold hard stone against his back, and waits uneasily for sleep to find him.

 

* * *

 

The caves are a _lot_ bigger than he thought.

 

The ceiling of the main sleeping chamber is tall enough for him to stand up at his full height without hitting his head, and occasional cracks and holes in the walls that lead outside allow just enough sunlight inside to see during the day, though it's still incredibly dim and shadowed. He can see other tunnels leading deeper into the cliff, an entire maze of passageways and rooms, but they aren't lit like the outer chamber is, so he doesn't explore too deeply.

 

Besides... he has other things to do.

 

Despite the presence of their human visitor, there is a clear routine being followed by the native population. A few adults stay in the caves to watch over a whole gaggle of little youngsters, even smaller than Leo, adorable three-foot-long critters that yip curiously at him, scrabbling along at Kirk's heels and they try to give chase when he follows Leo and the rest of the longsnouts out of the caves, only to be herded back inside by the babysitters.

 

An excited mutter greets him as he emerges into fresh air and sunshine, and as he gets to his feet, he realizes he's pretty much surrounded. As many as three dozen longsnouts look up at him, their body language displaying a mix of agitation, curiosity, and puzzlement. He stands slowly, raising empty hands to show that he's not holding any weapons. Not that they'd recognize the shitty handmade bow as such, unless Leo's somehow found the time to tell them about it, but his lack of claws should be peaceful enough, he hopes.

 

Leo leans its body against his legs, rumbling loudly, like a cat marking a favorite person with its scent, and its whip-like tail lashes from side to side. That eases some of the fear he sees expressed in so many alien faces, though a few don't look entirely convinced.

 

But the majority of the natives begin to make their way down the side of the rocky hill, moving as a group toward some common goal. Leo barks encouragement at Kirk, urging him to come too, trotting along at the rear of the pack.

 

It's not like he has anything better to do.

 

Their destination turns out to be a cold mountain stream. A small waterfall trickles down from a sharp drop-off into a shallow pool, which in turn slowly flows towards the lowlands. Maybe a tributary of the larger river that his life has all but revolved around these past few weeks. A few longsnouts have clearly already been here longer than the main bulk of the settlement, because there are several dozen silver fish already flopping around on the rocky riverbank, deposited there by deft paws. Newcomers begin to devour them, sharing their breakfast communally, and those that feed first take up the duty of fishing for others, allowing those who caught the first round to feed themselves. Another small group of adults take up the food in their second set of forepaws, carrying them back towards the caves, presumably to deliver to the young ones and those watching over them.

 

At least Kirk doesn't need to worry about losing track of Leo in the crowd. While there are a few others of similar size and stature, the dark cast to his alien friend's scales is like a beacon, making it easily identifiable at a glance. The other juveniles crowd around, curiously sniffing at the black discoloration, and Kirk holds still as one or two find enough courage to creep close enough to him to examine the human too. He smiles a little, careful not to show teeth, in case they see it as threatening. "Hi," he says, and there's a collective flinch from those closest to him, like they weren't expecting him to make noises. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"

 

He can't keep track of the chatter _that_ provokes, but at least he isn't hearing any hunting growls or danger calls. And the gathering crowd parts slightly to allow Leo passage, carrying a pair of fish to share. "Thanks," Kirk says, taking a seat side by side with his friend as they eat.

 

But a small hush ripples through the collected natives, and the captain looks up from breakfast to see the alpha approaching.

 

It's even bigger than he remembers, its spinal ridge standing on end, the same defensive posture that Leo exhibited when it was investigating the dead Fucking Nightmare. There is a certain regal dignity in its bearing, without a hint of playfulness or good humor. And as it passes, every single longsnout closes all four eyes and tilts its head sideways, baring its throat.

 

It's an incredibly vulnerable pose, and Kirk supposes that must be the point. A gesture that puts their lives in the claws of their leader, a symbol of submission to its leadership, acknowledging its superiority.

 

But Leo doesn't comply with the custom, closing only the lower pair of eyes, and lowering its head to show off the raised spinal ridge.

 

The alpha doesn't look offended, however, towering over the smaller longsnout to examine it from head to tail, slowly padding around it on all eight paws. But with Kirk sitting nearly hip to hip with his alien friend, the alpha has to circle him too, and he shifts his weight uncertainly, wondering if he should move out of the way. Leo croons quietly in its throat, one forepaw touching against the captain's knee to keep him in place, a silent request.

 

_Solidarity? Okay, I can do that._

 

The alpha barks a challenge, and Leo meets it with the most defiant _ruu-ruu-ruu_ he's ever heard. And the alpha's black eyes shift to Kirk, staring him down with an unfathomable expression, and barks the same challenge.

 

He tenses, unsure how to best respond. The last thing he wants to do is piss this thing off, especially if it gets Leo in trouble with its people. And if it gets mad at him for saying something wrong, he's pretty sure he can't take the alpha in a fair fight. All he can do is imitate what he's seen and heard, and hope that it's the right answer.

 

So he lowers his head slightly, and makes another attempt at the call for all-clear, just as Leo did.

 

There's a scattered chorus of poorly stifled _hraa-hraa_ sounds from some of the natives surrounding them, but the alpha isn't joining in, looking down at him solemnly. And with ceremonial precision, it uses its front pair of foreclaws to dig four short, parallel lines in the damp earth in front of each of them.

 

Leo produces its trophy from the Fucking Nightmare, that wicked black claw, and places it on top of the inscribed lines. Kirk isn't sure of the particular significance of the gesture, but it's no great leap of logic to figure out he's being expected to do the same. Fortunately, the claw is still situated at the top of his pack, so he doesn't have to dig around for it, setting it down on top of the alpha's claw marks.

 

The alpha sits back on both pairs of hind paws, lifting its upper body entirely off the ground, and _howls_. The rest of the longsnouts take up the cry, all save for Leo, who proudly raises its head high. The alpha drops back to all eight feet and steps in close, quickly striking at the youngster's scaly chest at the base of its long throat where the scales are softer, opening a shallow cut that trickles dark blue blood. Kirk tenses, but this must be expected, because Leo barely flinches, holding the pose.

 

And then the alpha moves over to Kirk.

 

_At least they let me know this was coming._ He lifts his chin slightly and braces himself. The alpha's sharp foreclaw effortlessly draws a dark red line across his exposed chest, just below the notch of his collarbones. It doesn't hurt, really, and he's had far worse than this before, but he decides that this is probably worth using his limited antibiotics, once this is over. It'd be beyond embarrassing to survive this long only to be taken out right before the finish line by alien bacteria.

 

The alpha barks something, and Leo presses one forepaw against its fresh wound, smearing blue blood onto its claws. Then, quite purposefully, it taps the bloodied paw to the cut on Kirk's chest.

 

He looks down in mild surprise, where red and blue blood mingles on black-stained skin. There's some kind of ceremonial significance to this, and he certainly hadn't expected to be included in whatever this is. But they're all looking at him expectantly, so he reciprocates the gesture, smearing his own red blood on Leo's scales, and imagines McCoy's face when he hears about this _incredibly_ unsanitary ritual.

 

_I really hope this is some kind of "we recognize that you're a badass" ceremony instead of a wedding or something._

 

But there doesn't seem to be any kind of "you may kiss the bride" moment coming up, as the alpha stands back and makes a complex series of noises, and the gathered longsnouts howl again, triumphant. This time, Leo howls too, raising its voice to join with the others.

 

_What the hell. When in Rome._ Kirk grins a little and lets out a whoop, startling a few of the natives closest to him, before they call out even louder, encouraging him to add his voice to theirs. It's a bizarre song of doglike howls, made all the weirder with the addition of a human shout, but the longsnouts certainly don't seem to mind. Leo, least of all.

 

His alien friend butts its head against his arm, whip-like tail lashing from side to side, and purrs loudly. Whatever they just did, Leo is over the moon about it. And as a few of the natives gather up the Fucking Nightmare claws and whisk them away to places unknown, others present them with gifts of extra fish, a feast to celebrate whatever the hell just happened.

 

"Leo, your family is weird, but I think I like them," he says in amusement, gratefully accepting the food. And as he eats, he begins to mentally compose his next check-in. _Bones, you're going to love what I've been up to today..._


	25. Days Sixty-One and Sixty-Six

After spending such a long time on his own, with only one other creature for company, being surrounded by intelligent beings again is weird. But in a good way.

 

Kirk still doesn't understand most of what they say to him - or maybe about him - as their language more complex than he first thought. With Leo, it's obvious in hindsight that his scaly friend simplified its vocalizations for his benefit, just like a human might train a pet to recognize basic words without expecting them to understand more complicated instructions. But the sheer diversity in the range of sounds they make is staggering, on par with most other languages he knows about, and his own inability to mimic some of the harsher noises means there's not much he can do to learn how to speak it fluently.

 

Fortunately, most of the tribe is rather forgiving of his shortcomings, even if they do laugh whenever he tries to copy some of the more difficult calls. Leo has already helped him put together a very basic range of "words" to get across his mood, at the very least, and his experience with interpreting his companion's barks and growls comes in handy more than once as he learns his way around longsnout territory.

 

It quickly becomes clear to him that he's not expected to be a passive observer. There don't seem to be set roles in their community; a longsnout that spends one day hunting might spend the next watching the young ones, then take up fishing duty the day after that. There's no particular pattern or rotation that he can tell, nor do the tasks appear to be segregated by sex in any way, but every adult member of the tribe participates, working together for the good of the group, and there's a consistency in what jobs are performed every day.

 

It's simpler to just stick close to Leo, at least at first. His young friend has already seen all of his advanced technology, and they know each other relatively well by now, so it's comfortable and easy to fall into the same routine that Leo chooses to follow.

 

It's unavoidable, really, that the rest of the tribe would be curious about this alien creature in their midst, and the mysterious equipment he uses to make up for his lack of claws. The contamination of their culture has already been done, to an extent, and there's no chance they'll be able to replicate the bow without a decent source of something to use as a bowstring, so he feels little guilt in using it during hunting days. He learns the longsnout style of pack hunting, a kind of mix between ambush predation and running the prey down, and his use of a ranged weapon makes it a hell of a lot easier, also letting him avoid too much running around on his bad knee.

 

Nor does he shy away from using the fishing line when it's his turn to help gather breakfast in the morning, knowing that they won't have any way of duplicating the transparent line and metal hooks. The un-ridged juveniles often gather on the riverbank to watch in fascination, sneaking in close to sniff at the fishing gear, and he has to be careful not to leave the hooks out where curious paws might get snared on the sharp barbs.

 

His preferred task, however, turns out to be watching over the little ones. While some of the adults are still quietly cautious about the alien in their midst, the children have no fear of him, clambering into his lap and poking at his chin with tiny claws, curious about the scruffy beard, or poking inquisitive snouts into the survival pack to investigate the odd smells of his equipment. And it quickly becomes a routine sight for the others to see the human leading the pack of little ones down to the river for a drink or a swim, the youngsters nipping playfully at his heels, endlessly fascinated by the fact that he walks on two legs instead of eight.

 

And so the days pass.

 

With a consistent source of food, one where he doesn't need to burn so many calories to catch enough to fill his belly, his weight loss slows. With a safe place to sleep, he can finally rest undisturbed all night, with only nightmares to interrupt and wake him, until the gentle purrs of those next to him lull him back to sleep.

 

But it doesn't seem to make much difference in the odd fatigue that seems to dominate every waking moment, nor does his headache seem like it's fading, throbbing away at his temples. And sleeping on solid rock is doing terrible things to his back and neck, no matter how much he tries to use Leo's soft side as a pillow to negate the effect. And though he's consciously making the effort not to take it out unfairly on the tribe, his new friends, every night he goes to bed in a bad temper.

 

He's so tired of waiting.

 

And itt's been so long since the _Enterprise_ has signaled him that when it does happen, it almost catches him off guard.

 

He tries to tell himself that it doesn't bother him that it's taken this long. It'd take a while to record each message, and if all they had to say was that there's no news, it's not worth repeating over and over. But to an extent, there's also been a growing impatience in the back of his mind, an itch to get back in the command chair, to get back to familiar faces and familiar foods. It's been _hours_ up on the _Enterprise_ , but he's been down here for over two months, according to his wrist chrono.

 

What the hell is _taking_ so long?

 

And every day, he looks up in that lilac sky and finds the gleaming point of light above, so close that he feels he could reach out and touch it, yet infinitely far out of reach. It's maddening. _Infuriating._ And he has to stop himself sometimes from just screaming out loud in frustration, knowing damn well that it won't help his crew come for him any faster.

 

But all the same, his heart leaps when he hears that familiar beep from his belt, and the young longsnouts yip in surprise, small paws prying at the source of the noise. Kirk quickly gets to his feet and grabs the communicator, lifting it out of their reach in case curious claws break it. _I am not losing my link to the ship, not this late in the game._

 

He flips it open, ignoring the sharp points digging into his bare legs as the youngsters paw at him, whining in disappointment that he's taken away a potential new toy.

 

" _Captain,_ " Spock's calm voice emits from the speaker, " _Mister Sulu has calculated a potential flight path to your approximate location. The simulator is checking the math as I speak. If successful, retrieval may be possible shortly. A rescue shuttle has already been prepared. Please acknowledge receipt of this message in one hour._ "

 

"Well it's about fucking time," Kirk mutters, and he feels a slight twinge of guilt for a moment as one of the youngsters yips up at him. "Good thing I can't accidentally teach you guys to swear," he says, giving the little ones a shaky smile. Behind him, Leo rumbles in amusement, probably responding more to his facial expression than the tone of his voice.

 

 _God,_ he is so tired of all this.

 

* * *

 

It's not until he's in the middle of a hunt, five days later, when he finally hears the roar of a shuttlecraft's engines in the distance.

 

At his side, Leo's head snaps up in alarm, trying to identify the source of the noise, settling only slightly when Kirk rests a hand on its back. "It's okay," he says, and despite all the aches and pains and exhaustion weighing him down, he's never felt lighter. "That's my ride."

 

The hunt's already ruined, the prey scared off by the alien noises in the forest, so he makes a beeline for the nearest clearing, and is rewarded with the absolutely beautiful sight of gleaming white shuttle _Newton_ coming in for a landing. The door slides open, and Sulu steps out, looking slightly sick to his stomach.

 

"I told you that transition's a bitch," Kirk calls out, grinning from ear to ear.

 

Sulu's expression when he sees his captain is a hell of a thing to see, and it's not hard to imagine why. But to his credit, he recovers his composure quickly. "It was a tricky bit of flying, but it's not as bad if you go through the poles. Ready to get out of here, captain?"

 

"You have _no idea_."

 

But he can't leave without saying goodbye.

 

Leo is staring at Sulu, all four eyes wide, and it slowly _chirrups_ a question. Kirk kneels down to the longsnout's level, face to face, unsure of how to get his alien friend to understand that he can't stay here any longer, that he needs to go. But Leo looks at him, and places a forepaw against the scar on his chest, purring.

 

And he realizes he doesn't need to explain anything at all.

 

"Thank you," Kirk says, reaching out to touch the matching scar on Leo. "You saved my ass down here, and I'll never forget it." He wishes he could leave some small memento for the young alien to keep, but with the Prime Directive in play, Starfleet might have his head for that.

 

They have their scars, and their memories. It'll have to be enough.

 

Leo leans forward to rests its head against his and purrs a little louder, the same way its people do when they part ways to go on a hunt. And slowly, reluctantly, it steps back.

 

Kirk smiles at it, and shoulders his gear, limping into the shuttle. He can feel alien eyes on him as he goes, no doubt following the shining shuttle as she takes to the sky under Sulu's expert hands, disappearing into the lilac sky.

 

And inside the shuttle, Kirk straps in and closes his eyes, relaxing into his seat. Finally, _finally_ , he's on his way home.


	26. Return

The moment _Newton_ touches down on the shuttlepad, McCoy is at the door, medkit clenched in a white-knuckle grip, and he nearly runs straight into Sulu in the hatchway.

 

"Where is he?" the doctor demands, not seeing Kirk with him.

 

"Relax, doc, he just fell asleep," Sulu says, sounding faintly amused. But his smile drops off his face, and he lowers his voice just enough that the other personnel in the shuttle bay won't overhear. "He's... different."

 

 _Different? What the hell's that supposed to mean?_ Full of worry, McCoy steps inside, casting his gaze around for his friend and captain.

 

He almost doesn't recognize him at first.

 

The captain is sprawled out in the copilot's chair, head tilted back against the headrest, completely conked out. His clothes are pretty much straight-up _gone_ , save for a ragged pair of pants that are missing everything from the knees down, and a pair of boots that have clearly seen better days. And the proof of his long ordeal - more than just the three hours he was missing from the _Enterprise_ \- is obvious in the length of ragged beard darkening his jawline, parts of it weirdly dark, like he dyed it or something. The black streaks are evident in his shaggy hair, too, grown out a bit past regulation standard, and while Kirk has never been overly muscled, the leanness of his body is shocking to McCoy, his skin tanned from days upon days of direct exposure to sunlight. Something he would never get on board a starship.

 

He's still having trouble wrapping his mind around it, to be honest.

 

But he has a patient to care for, and as he reaches out to grab Kirk's wrist to take his pulse, the captain stirs. "M'fine, Leo," he mutters, and blinks up at the doctor in incomprehension before realization dawns. "Bones!"

 

Kirk nearly falls out of the seat as he throws his arms around the doctor, hugging him tightly. Despite the drastic weight loss, his grip is still fairly strong, lean muscle honed by weeks upon weeks of harsh living. And though McCoy is just dying to get the captain checked out, he can tell that Kirk needs this human contact _more_ , and he hugs his friend back just as tight.

 

"Don't you ever fucking do that to me again, Jim," McCoy tells him, and feels Kirk shaking with laughter against him, because of _course_ he would find this funny. The two men draw apart, and the doctor yanks out his scanner to assess Kirk's condition.

 

"Wasn't planning on it," Kirk says, giving him that same roguish grin he's always commanded. "It's great to see you again."

 

"You too." McCoy's not sure he's ever meant it quite so much. And the worry is bleeding away as he examines the readings and sees no life-threatening complications, just a multitude of minor medical concerns. Low levels of vitamin C, potassium, calcium, iron, biotin... but all things he can actually _fix_ , not just sit around waiting for eternity. "What the hell have you been doing to yourself?"

 

"That's, ah, a long story," Kirk admits, his grin fading slightly, but no less cheery for it.

 

"High blood pressure, mild anemia, more vitamin and mineral deficiencies than I can shake a stick at, and you have a partly torn ligament in your left knee. And that's not even counting whatever bacteria you've got swimming around in your veins," McCoy says, frowning at the readout on his tricorder. He'd expected some level of malnutrition, but at least that's something relatively easy to treat, and he digs into his medkit for a multivitamin ampoule.

 

Unlike so many other times he's stuck Kirk with a hypo without warning, the captain doesn't flinch away, and that by itself tells McCoy a lot about his state of mind. Tired blue eyes look up at him in gratitude. "So, Bones, will I live?"

 

"You bet your ass you will," McCoy grumbles, offering Kirk a hand up. "But you're going straight to Sickbay. And you're gonna be on medical leave for at least two weeks while you get your weight up."

 

"I know, Bones. I've done this before." Kirk's voice is tired, haunted, and for a moment, McCoy feels an uncomfortable pang of guilt. _Of course he has._

 

Kirk doesn't sway on his feet, but the doctor's eyes easily pick out the lopsided stance, the way he favors his left leg, the wince as it pulls at sore muscles, probably in his back. The captain's hands automatically reach for the battered survival gear before he catches himself, throwing a faint, slightly sheepish grin at McCoy. "Sorry. Habit. Prime Directive."

 

"Yeah, about that," McCoy says, keeping a sharp eye on Kirk as he escorts the limping captain out of the shuttle and towards the turbolift. The shuttle bay isn't crowded, exactly, but the engineers milling around _Newton_ salute their ragged, exhausted commanding officer as he passes, with nary a snicker as to his barely-clothed state. "You wanna explain who exactly this _Leo_ is?"

 

Kirk's chuckle echoes across the landing pad as the turbolift doors slide closed.

 

* * *

 

It's amazing how much a little thing like a shower and a shave does for making him feel more _human_.

 

Kirk emerges from the small Sickbay shower cubicle feeling cleaner than he has in months, shaggy hair still damp from the water and steam, still blackened and stained in weird streaks from the Fucking Nightmare's blood, growing blond at the roots. His face feels oddly exposed, bare of the scruffy beard that's been his constant companion for weeks on end, but it's somewhat offset by the soft cotton scrubs wrapped around skin that had nearly forgotten what clothes felt like.

 

It's absolutely bizarre, being back on board. Part of his mind is still listening for danger, for the chirping of approaching featherfiends, and the stinging scent of disinfectant is at odds with his brain's expectations of fresh earthy smells. But the stark difference also means that it's a little easier to remember that he's not there anymore, that he's in safe territory, that he can truly _relax_ without worrying about getting eaten.

 

Even Sickbay's biobeds feel comfortable after weeks and weeks of sleeping on the ground or up in the branches of a tree, and he lets out an almost involuntary groan of relief as he stretches out, the bed's sensors activating in response to his body's weight against the padding. The thrum of his heart's rhythm is almost like sleeping side by side with Leo, listening to the longsnout's steady heartbeat, an almost primal comfort.

 

"How're you feeling, Jim?" McCoy asks, poking at the biobed's readouts. The doctor hasn't stopped looking worried since the shuttle bay, but there's a familiar determination in those grouchy hazel eyes as he putters around the medical bay, preparing hyposprays and God knows what else.

 

"Better," Kirk says honestly, stifling a yawn. As exciting as it is to finally be back onboard, he's still feeling the effects of weeks of sleeping poorly, of needing to be constantly alert for danger, and even if his brain still hasn't quite caught up with the idea that he's perfectly safe, his body is way ahead of him, trying to pull him down into the soft dark depths of slumber. "Tired."

 

"Yeah, that's because your body's figured out you've run dry on a stupid amount of nutrients. Malnutrition'll do that. Your headache, too - don't pretend like I haven't seen you squinting." McCoy pats him on the shoulder, before his hand slides down to probe at the healed scars on Kirk's shoulder and arm. "Does this hurt at all?"

 

Kirk shakes his head, leaving his arm limp and pliable in the doctor's grasp as he manipulates the limb. But as the doctor shifts his attention to the captain's knee, and the ugly scar next to the joint, expert fingers press something that makes him yelp involuntarily, almost jolting right off the bed at the sudden spike of pain. "Ouch! Fuck, Bones."

 

"Yeah, that's what I thought." The doctor turns away to find another ampoule of... something, fitting it into the hypospray. "Don't worry, you'll make a full recovery as long as you cooperate. I want you completely off the knee for a couple days. Use crutches if you've got to get around; I trust you not to fall on your ass. I'm prescribing you a multivitamin shot to take once a day for at least a month, and I never thought I'd be saying this to you, but you'd damn well better eat when you're hungry. Three square meals a day at _least_ , until you're back up in the healthy range."

 

It's familiar fussing, the kind that he would normally chafe under, wanting nothing more than to get back to work and out of the doctor's domain. But after the past few months, McCoy's mother henning is a welcome annoyance, a familiar touchstone to help ground him in the reality that he really is back on the _Enterprise_ , that his long ordeal is finally over. And he can't help smiling a little as the doctor continues to ramble on. "I missed this."

 

"You missed Sickbay?" McCoy asks skeptically, reaching over to stick him with a hypo. The pain in his knee dulls almost instantly, the throbbing in his head following suit, and he sighs a little as the painkiller takes effect.

 

Kirk smiles a little at the question, shaking his head. "No. I missed..." Being safe. Letting someone else worry about him. Other people. "...home," he decides.

 

McCoy's gaze softens a little, but the gruff doctor busies himself with some medical device that the captain isn't familiar with, something fiddly with lots of buttons to press. "Yeah, I can see that." He places the device over Kirk's injured knee, and a warm energy field envelops the joint, no doubt encouraging healing of the damaged tissue. "How long were you down there?"

 

"Sixty-six days, I think. I lost track when I was poisoned." But that's not the part that has his attention, and while his wrist chrono is still stashed with the rest of the hard-used gear that he brought back with him from the planet, he hasn't forgotten what stardate the device displayed this morning.

 

Atalanta's days are longer than standard days. He'd figured that out fairly early on, his body forced to adapt to a new circadian rhythm, over twenty-six hours from day to day. But his chronometer had no way to know that, and continued to track the days as if they were twenty-four hours long.

 

Sixty-six Atalanta days is not the same as sixty-six standard days.

 

"I'm older than I was," he says to McCoy, and the doctor pulls up a chair to sit at the side of the bed, frowning. "Isn't that weird?"

 

"Not that weird, Jim," McCoy says, even though it's pretty obvious just by looking at him that he's having trouble accepting it too. "At least it wasn't years."

 

But Kirk shakes his head. "I'm twenty-nine, Bones," he admits, and isn't _that_ a mindfuck. He can see McCoy gathering himself to object, maybe to protest that it's nowhere near January yet, but Kirk continues before he can. "As far as my body's concerned, it's stardate twenty-two sixty-two point four. It's practically my birthday."

 

It's only two and a half months difference, give or take. But it's enough to give him pause. He's lived two and a half months more than his crew, his friends. Weeks upon weeks of time they no longer share, setting him apart in a way that he never would've imagined.

 

But no matter when he physically reaches that yearly milestone, his chronological birthday still hangs like a millstone around his neck, a reminder of the steep cost that was paid on the anniversary of his birth. It's something he'll never be able to escape... no matter how old he really is.

 

McCoy sits back, looking slightly stunned. "Jim..." He flounders for what to say, and eventually settles on a somewhat strangled, "I didn't get you anything."

 

Kirk just smiles faintly, and reaches over a little to pat his friend on the knee. "You got me back. I can't ask for anything else." He pauses, and his smile widens into a hopeful grin. "Except maybe a sandwich."

 

McCoy rolls his eyes dramatically, his lips twitching with the effort of not giving in to the smile that clearly wants to make itself known. "You're a hard man to shop for. But I'll see what I can do."


	27. Epilogue

To say that Starfleet Command is furious would be an understatement.

 

Two days after being rescued from the surface of Atalanta, Captain Kirk spends several hours sequestered in a conference room, being grilled mercilessly on the specifics of how and _why_ he violated the Prime Directive, exposing a pre-industrial society to advanced technology and concepts that they had yet to think of themselves.

 

No one but the captain is privy to the exact contents of the meeting, but rumors fly around the _Enterprise_ for weeks after about how Kirk gave as good as he got, accusing Starfleet of lax regulations in regards to emergency equipment on shuttlecrafts, sometimes shouting so loudly that even the soundproof conference room walls couldn't contain his fury.

 

Nor are the details known what punishment Command set down upon the captain, sealed in a classified notation on his official service record. But unlike the last time accusations were levied against him for violating the Federation's most sacred law, Captain Kirk remains in command of the _Enterprise_ , and if he's a little obsessive in running the crew through survival preparedness courses over the next few weeks, nobody says a thing about it.

 

Neither does anyone comment on the captain's tendency to flinch at some of the whistling alarms on the bridge or the occasional clicking of a stylus against a padd, or his new habit of roaming the lower decks in the middle of the night, when his sleep has clearly been disturbed by some nightmare of his ordeal, checking to ensure that the corridors of his ship are safe.

 

Or checking to make sure that he isn't alone.

 

And if McCoy sometimes drags him off to the officer's lounge for a late-night drink, if Spock occasionally guides him to the observation deck to join him in silent contemplation of the stars, if Uhura stays up late into the night in quiet conversation over the comm with the lonely captain, no one onboard is willing to turn such things into idle gossip, respecting their commanding officer's privacy. And his need to recover from long months spent away from home. It's not the sort of thing that heals overnight.

 

But the crew of the _Enterprise_ has never made it their habit to leave one of their own to suffer.

 

And they will never leave their captain behind.

 

The science department flags Atalanta as unsuitable for study, and the _Enterprise_ warps away into deep space, leaving the odd little world to spin alone in the void.

 

* * *

 

It has been many years since the sky spirit departed the World, but Star Watcher has not forgotten it.

 

There are few now who remember the gentle spirit, sent from the heavens in a time of need. All of the elders from that time have gone to join the Forever Song, and the children have now grown into fine warriors, but their memories of the helpful spirit are young and few. They did not learn the spirit's heart as Star Watcher did, sharing the Trial of Adulthood those many days in the deep places.

 

Star Watcher is chief and shaman now, an ancient and wise leader who has been Renewed many times. But always, the memories of the sky spirit stay fresh as they once were, as vivid as the adulthood mark that still adorns Star Watcher's chest, recalling that strange shape with its strange sounds, and its many wonderful tricks. Inside that strange, soft furry body was the heart of one of the People: brave, clever, and bold.

 

It is the sky spirit that showed Star Watcher how to make the death sticks, making them as sharp as claws, made more dangerous with the Burning Dreams from the Chirping Ones. It is the sky spirit that taught how to trap the Dark Eaters, to hunt those which hunt the People and eliminate the danger. It is the sky spirit that showed that there is more to the World than the People know, a small piece of the grand mystery that lies above the Great Dome of the heavens, the shining lights in blackness above.

 

Some of the sky spirit's magic remains a secret, its true power unknown. The People still cannot pull the Shining Ones from the waters with tiny trinkets, or call upon the voices of other spirits beyond the Great Dome, or produce shining sharp claws to cut that which paws cannot. These magics are too powerful still, but Star Watcher knows that the People will learn when they are ready.

 

They are already learning so much. Far Reaching Hunter has nearly solved the secret of the swift sticks, searching for a lesser magic to take the place of the sky spirit's invisible thread that strikes down the Chirping Ones from so far away. One of the young ones, nearly old enough to take the Trial of Adulthood, has taken inspiration from Star Watcher's tales of the sky spirit's paw coverings and their usefulness in carrying more than claws, and has stumbled across a way to combine long plants together into similar shapes, discovering the magic of carrying many things where claws can carry only few.

 

And where once the Together Home beneath the earth was dark, now there is light, its magic summoned by those who have learned which rocks to strike to create the burning. The magic makes food taste different, sometimes too different, but it is the way that spirits like to eat. And so every time Star Watcher is Renewed, the burning magic is used to offer food to the sky spirit beyond, to bless the People with the power and protection of the wondrous creature whose magic still protects and guides them all, and inspires them to always seek the greater magics and learn the truth of what lies beyond the World.

 

And perhaps one day, the People will discover the magic to take them beyond the Great Dome, to join the shining lights in the heavens, and seek out the sky spirit in its home. Perhaps one day, the People will come to learn of the other spirits outside of the World, and learn their magics also.

 

Star Watcher sits on the high cliff above the Together Home, gazing upwards at the Great Dome as the Bright Light falls into the World, bringing darkness to the land. But there is no fear of the Dark Eaters, not now that the Together Home is protected by the death sticks, planted like trees all around. And as the children gather around, the first generation to be truly safe in the darkness, Star Watcher directs their eyes upward to the shining lights, and teaches them the song of the sky spirit, the Protector of the People from beyond the Great Dome. A song to remember from generation to generation, so that they never forget the clever, kind sky spirit that walked among them and gave them the claws to fight the darkness, even after Star Watcher one day joins the Forever Song.

 

And she hopes that wherever her dear friend is, that it can hear her song and purr as it remembers her, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh yeah and apparently I'm on tumblr now. Come find me at [kirkfanatic.tumblr.com](https://kirkfanatic.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
